


Star Wars: The Force Awakens [FIXED]

by NeonAtlas



Series: STAR WARS: THE SEQUEL TRILOGY FIXED [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Family Issues, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, anti-reylo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonAtlas/pseuds/NeonAtlas
Summary: FIXING THE SEQUELS TRILOGYThirty years after the Galactic Civil War, the First Order has risen from the fallen Galactic Empire and seeks to eliminate the New Republic. The Resistance, backed by the Republic and led by General Leia Organa, opposes the First Order. Leia searches for her brother, Luke Skywalker, who has gone missing.
Relationships: Finn & Rey (Star Wars), Future Poe Dameron/Finn, Leia Organa/Han Solo, Poe Dameron & Finn, Rey & Han Solo
Series: STAR WARS: THE SEQUEL TRILOGY FIXED [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582291
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (EPISODE VII | Star Wars: The Force Awakens fixed. Basically the plot's script of the first film from the Sequels Trilogy with added stuff.)
> 
> IMPORTANT: This is my personal idea of how the three new main Star Wars movies could be improved with a few minor changes. If you don't like it, well... too bad. This is fiction after all, and not from your point of view, so if you are willing to see how this whole Disney thing can change (for the better, in my opinion), you are welcome to continue.
> 
> This film is probably the less problematic one. The plot, the introduction of a new energetic main trio, and the mirroring of Episode IV were things that I enjoyed quite a lot.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

**Episode VII**

**THE FORCE AWAKENS**

Luke Skywalker has vanished.

In his absence, the sinister

FIRST ORDER has risen from

the ashes of the Empire

and will not rest until

Skywalker, the last Jedi,

has been destroyed.

With the support of the

REPUBLIC, General Leia Organa

leads a brave RESISTANCE.

She is desperate to find her

brother, Luke, and gain his

help in restoring peace and

justice to the galaxy.

Leia has sent her most daring

pilot on a secret mission

to Jakku, where an old ally

has discovered a clue to

Luke’s whereabouts…

* * *

SHE NEEDED HIM. And he was nowhere to be found.

There was no one else she could rely on. No one like her brother. No one else at all, now that the New Republic stood on the verge of implosion, of destruction, of complete collapse.

They had thought that with the fall of the Empire it would all be so easy. That people would understand the need for patience, that time would be required to rebuild that which the Empire had taken away. Cities, communications, trade: All these could and were well on their way to full restoration. It was the intangibles that proved so much more difficult to re-establish throughout galactic society.

Freedom, for example. The freedom to speak one’s mind, to object, to dispute. She sighed. Those who had led the rebellion had under-estimated the deeply buried desire of far too large a proportion of the population who simply preferred to be told what to do. Much easier it was to follow orders than to think for oneself. So everyone had argued and debated and discussed. Until it was too late.

Pacing the chamber, she caught a glimpse of herself in a length of polished metal. She knew she looked tired. Sometimes she wished she had been born a commoner, an ordinary citizen, instead of planetary royalty. Such thoughts led her inevitably to memories of Alderaan. Her home world, now many years gone, reduced to ashes.

And her own father had been a party to it. It was a legacy she could not escape. She could not let something like that happen again, to any other world, to any other people. It was her responsibility, and the weight of it was heavy. Too heavy?

Easier if she had help. The kind of help only her brother was capable of providing. If he wasn’t dead.

No. Surely not. Wherever he was, if he had passed on, she would have sensed his demise. Of that she was certain. Of that much she _had_ to be certain.

There had come a hint, a clue. Not much, but better than any report that had found its way to her in some time. She would have followed up on it herself, for who better to search for clues to the location of a missing brother than his own sister? When she had proposed the idea, the shock of objection on the part of her fellow Resistance leaders could have been heard halfway across the galaxy. Reluctantly, she had conceded to reason. Someone would go in her stead.

The name of a particular pilot had been put forth. His record was no less than remarkable, and she could hardly argue that a pilot scouting solo would draw less attention than a perambulating princess. So she agreed.

“Finding one man should not, in the final analysis, be so difficult,” insisted one of her colleagues. “Even on all the known worlds, there are only so many hiding places.”

“For an ordinary man, yes,” she had replied. “But we’re not trying to find an ordinary man. We’re looking for Luke Skywalker.”

There had been some further argument, especially from other leaders who had remained convinced that the pilot chosen to follow up on the slender lead was too young for such a crucial task. In the end, harmony had triumphed.

Once again she caught her reflection in the metal. It had been some time since she had not prevailed in the course of such discussions.

A thin, knowing smile gleamed back at her. No doubt her authority in such matters derived from her shy, retiring nature. The smile faded. No time for sardonic reflection now, she told herself. No time for extended, lengthy discussion. Times were desperate. The ruthless First Order was on the march, threatening to overwhelm the shaky framework of the weak, increasingly vulnerable, and still-developing New Republic.

_Where was her brother?_

* * *

The Star Destroyer _Finalizer_ was massive and new. It had been forged and assembled in the distant orbital factories of the First Order, constructed in secret and uninfected by the virus that was the New Republic. Its devoted and fanatical builders had designed it to be more powerful, more technologically advanced, than anything that had come before it. Certainly there was nothing in the possession of the new Resistance that could stand against the vessel.

Almost invisible when they first dropped from a port in the side of the immense _Resurgent_ -class Star Destroyer, the four transport vessels were of a proven design. Their function straightforward and simple, they had no need of the extensive redesign embraced by their mother ship. For all that, the transports still performed their prescribed role with brute efficiency.

As they went about their mundane daily tasks below, the inhabitants of the glowing orb known as Jakku had no idea they were about to receive a visit from four elite squadrons of Imperial stormtroopers.

On board the quartet of transports, the eighty white-armored troopers prepared for touchdown in the manner of soldiers everywhere. Wisecracks alternated with nervous speculation about what might await them. Surging adrenaline generated nudges and the occasional comradely whack on a neighbor’s arm.

They knew one another well, had confidence in their team, and felt certain they could cope with anything the minor world toward which they were descending could throw at them.

Squad leaders barked commands. Weapons were armed, checked, rechecked. Flame troopers made certain their special weapons were loaded to capacity. Each trooper made a point of inspecting the armor of a neighbor, ensuring that joints were sealed and panels tight.

The ensuing silence was replaced by a deep rumbling, motionlessness by jolts and bangs, as the four craft entered Jakku’s atmosphere. Someone made a particularly inappropriate comment and was immediately quieted by those seated across from him. After that, the only noise within each transport was the roar and thunder as they bucked their way down through thick air.

An automated electronic voice sounded the “Prepare for landing!” warning. Armored bodies tensed. There was a single sharp jolt, followed by the return of a silence so thorough it was shocking. Hands tightened on weapons, bodies tensed, and inside the bay all eyes turned to the transport’s bow doorway. The quiet was barely broken by the slightest of mechanical hums as the front of the ship started to lower toward the unseen ground.

* * *

There were smaller villages on Jakku. More primitive, more rural. No one passing over, or even through, Tuanul would have suspected that it held a secret. Even if they had, they would have found no reason to linger. The worlds of the galaxy were full of secrets, and there was no reason to suspect Jakku was any different. But this particular secret…

It was a peaceful place, as was the case with most small communities situated on desert worlds. Despite the desolation that was apparent at first glance, it boasted its characteristic assortment of indigenous life-forms. Regardless of the absence of much in the way of visible vegetation, the distant isolated hoots and mewlings of nocturnal native animals indicated that life was present even where none could readily be seen. A single wind chime yodeling in the occasional breeze provided a tinkling counterpoint to the yelps of hidden sand-dwellers.

With neither the place nor the motivation to hide, a creature that was decidedly non-native rolled eastward out of the village. Consisting of a rounded head floating above a much larger sphere, it was dull white with striking orange markings. Designated BB-8, the droid was, at the moment, very, very concerned.

Where a human would see only empty night sky, advanced calibrated synthetic optics saw a moving point of light. When the light resolved itself into four separate points, the droid commenced an agitated beeping. The phenomenon he was seeing might signify nothing, except…

The quartet of lights was descending in a controlled manner, on what could only be described as a calculated path, and they were rapidly slowing. If they continued in the observed fashion they would make a controlled touchdown at… BB-8 performed an almost instantaneous calculation.

Too near. Too near for coincidence. One such light was reason for concern. Four hinted at possibilities dire to contemplate.

Beeping and whistling in something approaching cybernetic panic, the droid spun and sped back toward the village. That is, its head spun. Facing all directions simultaneously, the spherical body did not need to turn, only to accelerate. This BB-8 did with alacrity. While it could have transmitted the conclusion it had reached, it did not do so for fear of any such message being intercepted, possibly by those it feared might be inhabiting the source of the four descending lights.

In addition to its motley group of mixed galactic peoples, Tuanul was home to an assortment of used but still valuable machinery. A fair portion of the village population eked out a modest living modifying and restoring such equipment for resale in larger towns and cities. As the droid sped past, the occasional human or alien worker glanced up from the task at hand, frowning, bemused by the droid’s apparently unwarranted haste as it raced through the community. Then they returned to their work, shrugging with the appropriate body parts.

Machines in various degrees of dismemberment and disarray did not slow BB-8, who dodged effortlessly around and through them. The flocks of bloggins the droid encountered were not so easily avoided. Whereas deconstructed devices tended to sit in one place and not move, bloggins not only wandered where they wished, but regarded whatever patch of land or sand they happened to be occupying at the moment as exclusively theirs, and took raucous exception to interlopers. The birdlike creatures promptly objected to the droid’s chosen path. The pecking he ignored, and he could have barreled on straight through them. But the domesticated flocks provided food for a number of the villagers, and their owners would not have been pleased to see them flattened.

So BB-8 was forced to dodge and avoid, which he did with skill and patience, beeping and shrieking at the shamble of pseudo-avians in order to clear a nondestructive path. Eventually the last of the annoying beasts was behind him. Deep within the village, there was far less likelihood of encountering anything domesticated that was worth eating: a biological process he understood from an objective point of view but for which he could never rouse much empathy. His goal was close, and there was not a nanosecond to lose.

Like most of the buildings in Tuanul, the residence toward which he was speeding was an odd amalgamation of the contemporary and the very primitive. Dwellings on many of the minor desert worlds were like that: designs dictated by necessity as well as the environment. Though BB-8’s intended destination resembled little more than a primeval hut, it contained electronics and multiple concealed enhancements capable of making living in a harsh, dry climate more than merely tolerable.

* * *

Though he was fatigued, Poe Dameron tried not to let it show. He owed that much to his host. Besides, he had a reputation to uphold. He had come a long way through difficult and dangerous circumstances to be in this place, in this moment—all on behalf of the Resistance and specifically on the orders of General Organa herself. He was not about to let a minor inconvenience like exhaustion tarnish a farewelling.

His visage, framed by dark, thick waves of hair, was a bit proud of countenance: something that others, not knowing him, might mistake for arrogance. Confident in his skills and in his mission, he sometimes displayed an impatience that arose only from a desire to fulfill the task at hand. His worn-down red-and-sand-hued flight jacket had been with him as long as he had been in the Resistance, rising through its ranks.

From the moment of Poe’s arrival, Tuanul had struck him as somewhat less than imposing. This was in notable contrast to his host. While Lor San Tekka appeared physically capable of removing the heads from various unthinking carnivores, his manner was more that of a Soother, and a professional one at that. One immediately relaxed in his company. Provided one held no inimical intentions toward the hut’s owner, of course. Though their visit had been brief, the pilot felt quite confident of his analysis.

Coming close, Tekka placed a small leather sack in Poe’s open palm, then covered both with his own hand. He smiled softly and nodded.

“These days I can only do so much. Would that I could do so much more.” He sighed heavily. “And there is so much more that needs to be done. But… this will begin to make things right.”

As the older man’s hand withdrew, Poe tightened his fingers around the leather bag. In size, it was small. In importance…

“Legend says this map is unobtainable,” Poe noted. “How’d you do it?”

The older man just smiled, clearly not willing to give up all his secrets just yet. Poe grinned back at him, accepting it.

“I’ve heard stories about your adventures since I was a kid. It’s an honor to meet you. We’re grateful.”

Tekka shrugged—an old man’s shrug, slow and full of meaning. “I’ve traveled too far and seen too much to ignore the collective anguish that threatens to drown the galaxy in a flood of dark despair. Something must be done; whatever the cost, whatever the danger. Without the Jedi, there can be no balance in the Force, and all will be given over to the dark side.”

Though Poe was reasonably secure in his knowledge of such things, he was also intelligent enough to know he could not begin to discuss them in depth with someone like Lor San Tekka. Rather than make a fool of himself by trying to do so, he prepared to take his leave. Besides, he had a delivery to make. Casual philosophical conversation could wait for a better time.

“The general has been after this a long time,” Poe said, as a way of beginning to take his leave. Tekka smiled at some secret thought. “‘General.’ To me, she’s royalty.”

“Yeah, but don’t call her Princess,” Poe told him. “Not to her face. She doesn’t like it anymore. _Really_ doesn’t like it.”

He was about to elaborate when a frantic metal sphere rolled into the room, barely braking in time to avoiding hitting the two men, and began to spew a stream of electronic chatter. The two men exchanged a glance before rushing toward the building’s entrance.

Poe had his quadnocs in his hands even before he stopped running. Aiming them toward the general section of sky indicated by BB-8, he let the integrated automatic tracker focus on any targets in the vicinity. The device located four almost immediately. Lowering it, he spoke without turning, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Not to be presumptuous, sir, but you need to hide.”

Tekka didn’t need quadnocs. He had already identified the incoming ships by the sound they made as they finished their descent. “Not to overstate the obvious, but _you_ need to leave.”

Despite the importance of his mission, Poe found himself conflicted. Not only did he respect Lor San Tekka, he liked him. How could he leave him here? “Sir, if you don’t mind, I—”

The older man cut him off. “But I do mind, Poe Dameron. You spoke of your mission.” Both his gaze and his tone hardened. “Now fulfill it. Compared to what is stirring in the galaxy, you and I are little more than motes of dust.”

Still, Poe demurred. “With all due respect, some motes are of more importance than others… sir.”

“If you wish to flatter something, flatter my memory. Go. Now! I must see to the defense of the village.” Turning, Tekka headed off, not looking back.

Poe hesitated a moment longer, then whirled and raced toward the far end of the village, BB-8 pacing him effortlessly. As he ran, he was passed by armed, stern-visaged villagers. How the alarm had been raised he did not know, just as he did not pause to wonder at how or why such seemingly simple folk had come into possession of so many weapons. Doubtless Lor San Tekka would know. Poe resolved to ask him— one day.

The ship that was parked some distance from the village was well hidden beneath a high rock outcropping. That wouldn’t shield the X-wing from sophisticated search gear, Poe knew. He needed to exit the atmosphere, and fast. Hurrying to the cockpit as BB-8 rolled into the copiloting position, he hurriedly activated the controls. Instrumentation flared to life. In the distance a swarm of bipedal shapes in glistening white armor could be seen approaching the village. Stormtroopers. The weaponry they unleashed confirmed their identification.

Those villagers who had armed themselves attempted to mount a defense. In this, bravery was a poor match for training and advanced equipment. As more and more of their number went down, the defenders had no choice but to pull back.

It was over almost before it began. Seeing the hopelessness of further resistance, the villagers began to give themselves up, surrendering in twos and threes. As penned animals panicked and broke free, several of the specially equipped flame troopers began setting

chosen structures afire. To an outraged Poe there seemed no reason for it. But then, to those behind the First Order, sowing fear and terror was merely politics by another means.

His angry thoughts were interrupted by a stream of electronic anxiety from the droid. “We’re going, Beebee-Ate, we’re going! Almost there…” He thumbed another control.

Landing lights snapped on as engines whined to life. _Roll clear of the overhang and then punch it_ , he told himself.

He was a second from doing just that when the ship was hit.

The pair of stormtroopers had come up on him unseen. Whoever had planned the attack was too smart to rely on a simple frontal assault. Perhaps these two were part of a preceding suit drop or had used a vehicle to circle around behind the village. If one of their bursts connected with the cockpit, their origin wouldn’t matter.

On the other hand, they were either angling for a commendation or just plain stupid, because their line of approach put them right in front of the X-wing’s weapons. Poe hit the control that deployed the drop-down pivoting gun from the belly of his X-wing, then fired. The resulting blasts cleared the ground of the enemy and every other living thing that had been unfortunate enough to have been in their immediate vicinity.

Having dealt succinctly with the momentary interruption, Poe returned his attention to the X-wing’s instrumentation. An ascending whine rose from the rear of the ship. Shuddering slightly, it started to move out from beneath the protective rock. Strapped into the pilot’s seat, Poe flinched in response to the unexpected vibration. There shouldn’t be any shuddering.

The X-wing stopped, but the rising whine did not. After quickly shutting down to prevent any further damage to

the engines, Poe popped the canopy and climbed out. Moving to the back of the ship, he stared hard at the now inert engines. The two stormtroopers might not have been tactically sophisticated, but they had been good shots. The damage to the engines was severe.

BB-8 rolled up beside him. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. Both man and droid could see that they were in big trouble.

* * *

In the village the fight continued as a die-hard group of its inhabitants, perhaps knowing all too well what the representatives of the First Order had in mind for them if they surrendered, refused to give up their weapons. While the battle was a mismatch, it was not a slaughter, and those villagers who continued to resist gave as good as they got.

Shot straight on, a trooper went down in a mass of shattered armor, shredded flesh, and blood. One of his companions immediately rushed to his side and knelt to render assistance. A torn, bloody glove lifted toward the would-be rescuer, shockingly bare fingers protruding from the torn protective covering.

Faces behind helmets stared at one another. With a shock, the trooper who had arrived to render aid to his fallen comrade recognized the one whose life was now bleeding out inside his armor. They had trained together. Shared meals, stories, experiences together. Now they were sharing death together.

Combat was not at all like the would- be rescuer had envisioned it.

A brief, final flailing by the downed trooper splattered the newcomer’s face mask with blood. Then hand and arm fell, and movement ceased.

There was no assistance to be rendered here, the second trooper realized. Straightening, he surveyed the hell in which he found himself. His weapon hung at his side—unfired. He stumbled off, away from his dead comrade and that exposed, pale, pleading hand.

As madness ebbed and surged around him, he wandered through the village, feeling himself more a participant in a historical drama than in an actual battle. The horrific and all too common red stains on the ground contradicted his denial. This wasn’t like his training at all, he told himself numbly. Unlike in simulations, reality bled.

Smoke and dust rose from the devastated buildings around him. His helmet’s aural receptors picked up the sounds of distant explosions as well as those close at hand. Crackling flames did not rise from burning sand; they rose from homes, small workshops, storage buildings.

As he turned the still-standing corner of a building, movement caused him to raise his weapon reflexively. Frightened and unarmed, the woman he found himself confronting inhaled sharply and froze. The expression on her face was one the trooper would never forget: It was the look of someone still alive who realizes she’s already dead. For an instant they remained like that: predator and prey, each fully cognizant of their respective status. When he finally lowered the blaster’s muzzle, she clearly couldn’t believe it; she continued to stare at him for a long moment.

What could only be described as a thunderous hiss caused them to turn away from each other. When the trooper turned in the direction of the sound, his movement broke the woman’s terrified paralysis. She whirled and fled.

The shuttle that was descending was far more imposing than those with which the trooper was familiar, boasting exceptionally high folding wings and a raptorish silhouette. When the bay door opened, it was to allow a single figure to exit. Tall, dark, cloaked, with its face hidden behind a metal mask, it ignored the still-swirling chaos of the battle to head unerringly in the direction of Lor San Tekka.

Struck by the new arrival’s apparent indifference to the enveloping fray, the trooper was startled when a sharp nudge from behind momentarily threw him off balance. A glance found him locking gazes with a superior. The noncom’s voice was curt.

“Back to your team. This isn’t over yet.”

The subject of his ire nodded in recognition and hurried off, wondering what the arrival of that singular figure might portend but not daring to inquire.

For an ordinary trooper like him, ignorance was not simply an abstract value. It was in the manual.

* * *

At least for now, Poe realized, the X- wing was not flyable. If he could scrounge certain critical components, find a machine-grade cutter, then maybe, just maybe…But first there was a far more important matter to attend to.

From within the leather bag he had received from Tekka, he removed an artifact. Its significance far exceeded its size. After a moment of fumbling with BB-8’s exterior, the pilot inserted the artifact into the droid. A confirming beep indicated that it was securely lodged. 

Satisfied, he stood to eye the glow of the burning village.

“Get as far away from here as you can,” he ordered his mechanical companion. “Any direction, so long as it’s away from this place.” When the droid’s anxious electronic response indicated it was hesitant to comply with the command, Poe added emphasis to his voice.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take out as many of those bucketheads as I can. Beebee-Ate, I’ll come back for you. _Go_! Don’t worry—it’ll be all right. Wherever you end up, I’ll find you.”

BB-8 continued to hesitate. But when the pilot remained indifferent to repeated queries, the droid finally turned and rolled off, accelerating across the sand and away from the village. It looked back only once, its head swiveling around to regard the X-wing and pilot rapidly fading from view even as it increased its speed in the opposite direction. Much to BB-8’s regret, it could only protest a direct order, not reject it.

* * *

The tall, hooded figure whose arrival had so transfixed the shell-shocked trooper made his way directly to Lor San Tekka. He did not waver in his course or objective, ignoring startled stormtroopers and armed villagers alike. Seeing him approach, Tekka halted and waited: The village elder recognized who was coming toward him and knew there was no point in running. Resignation slid over him like a cloud.

The passenger from the shuttle stared at Tekka, examining him from head to foot much as one would a relic in a museum. Tekka gazed back evenly. The black mask, with its slitted forehead and thick, snoutlike breathing apparatus, covered the face of the man he knew as Kylo Ren. Once, he had known the face behind the mask. Once, he had known the man himself. Now, to San Tekka, only the mask was left. Metal instead of man.

Ren spoke first, without hesitation, as if he had anticipated this meeting for some time. “The great soldier of fortune. Captured at last.” Though emanating from a human throat, the voice that was distorted by the mask had the sick flavor of the disembodied.

Tekka had expected no less. “Whereas something far worse has happened to you.”

Words had no effect on the mask or, so far as Tekka could tell, what lay behind it. There was no reaction, no outrage. Only impatience.

“You know what I’ve come for.”

“I know where you come _from_.” For all the concern he displayed, Lor San Tekka might as well have been sitting atop a mountain ridge, meditating on the sunset over the Sko’rraq Mountains. “From a time before you called yourself Kylo Ren.”

From behind the mask, a growl: feral, but still human. “Careful. The map to Skywalker. We understand you’ve acquired it. And now you’re going to give it to the First Order.”

At the point where he had entered the village, moving cautiously and keeping to what cover was available, Poe could now observe the confrontation. Tekka he recognized even from behind and in bad light. The tall, masked visitor was unknown to him. He strained to overhear what they were talking about, but without edging closer and exposing himself to wandering stormtroopers, he could only look on.

“You don’t belong with them.” Tekka spoke calmly, in matter-of-fact tones, and without any fear. Speaking truth to the lie that stood before him, striving to bring light to darkness. The hope was a faint one, but he had to try. “The First Order arose from the dark side. You did not.”

Impatience on the part of the visitor gave way to exasperation. “How is it possible that a conversation becomes so tedious, so quickly?” A sweep of one long arm encompassed the boundaries of the village. “Don’t turn a simple transaction into a tragedy for these people.” A tincture of undiluted sadism stained the voice behind the mask. “Hasn’t your presence here done enough for them already?”

“I made my peace with these folk and this place long ago. As to the other, to turn away from your heritage is the true tragedy.”

Ren stiffened ever so slightly as he leaned forward. “Enough witless banter.” He held out a hand. “Old man, give it to me.”

From his vantage point nearby, analyzing the movements and gestures of both men, Poe could divine enough to guess what was being discussed. And to envision the eventual, inevitable conclusion.

“No,” he muttered under his breath. “No, no, no…” Foregoing any further effort at concealment and disregarding his own safety, he broke from cover and started toward the pair.

“You may try,” Tekka responded with quiet defiance, “but you cannot deny the truth that is your family.”

Kylo Ren seemed to grow before him. Rage flared behind the mask as reason gave way to fury. A lightsaber appeared in one hand, flaring to life, a barely stable crimson shaft notable for two smaller projections at the hilt: a killer’s weapon, an executioner’s fetish of choice. “So true.”

Light, refulgent and cutting, ripped across and through the figure of Lor San Tekka.


	2. Chapter 2

POE SAW THE saber come to life. Saw it start to describe its lethal arc. Time seemed to slow as he watched it descend. Thoughts raced through his mind, half crazed, wholly powerless. He heard himself yelling, sensed himself raising his blaster and firing. Too late, too slow, he told himself despondently even as he continued to fire.

Perceiving the threat, Kylo Ren reacted immediately. A hand rose sharply, palm facing toward the unknown assailant. The gesture was merely the physical manifestation of something infinitely more powerful and entirely unseen. It intercepted the discharge from the pilot’s weapon, freezing it in midair as effectively as any solid barrier. From behind the mask, eyes of preternatural intensity tracked the attack to its source.

Initially driven by pure rage, Poe now found that he could not move. His heart pounded, his lungs heaved, but his voluntary muscles refused to respond. He was paralyzed as effectively as the blast from his blaster.

A pair of stormtroopers took hold of him and dragged him forward until he stood helpless before the impassive Ren. Had they not held on to him, Poe would simply have fallen over. He attempted bravado even so. “Who talks first?” Poe asked, making his voice light. “Do you talk first? Do I talk first?”

Having deactivated his lightsaber and returned it to his belt, Lor San Tekka’s murderer casually scrutinized the prisoner. Poe’s nerves twanged as feeling slowly began to return to his arms and legs. Ren’s gaze settled on the details of the pilot’s clothing.

“A Resistance pilot, by the looks of him.” He nodded curtly. “Search him. Thoroughly.”

One of the troopers who had dragged Poe forward commenced a detailed and none too gentle pat down. Pulling a small device from his service belt, the other trooper slowly passed it the length of the prisoner’s body, beginning at the pilot’s head and ending at his feet. The examination did not take long.

“Nothing,” declared the first stormtrooper, standing at attention.

Poe winked up at the trooper who had used his hands. “Good job.”

Forgetting himself for a moment, the goaded trooper kicked the prisoner’s legs out from under him. Poe went down hard on his knees, still defiant.

The other trooper gestured with the handheld instrument. “Same here, sir. Internally, this one is clean. Nothing but the expected food residue.” He didn’t hesitate. “Terminate him?”

Kylo Ren did not let his disappointment show. At such times momentary delays were not unexpected. All would be satisfactorily resolved, in good time.

“No. Keep him.” A brief pause, then, “Intact and functioning.”

Plainly disappointed, the two troopers dragged Poe away. Ren watched them for a moment, contemplating possibilities. _Later_ , he told himself. For now, there were other details to attend to. He allowed his thoughts to be briefly diverted, regretting the time that had been wasting in dealing with necessary inconsequentialities.

Awaiting his pleasure, the senior officer in overall charge of the special squadrons drew herself up at his approach, her black cape of rank hanging loose around her. It stood in startling contrast to her armor, which even in the poor light shone like polished silver.

“Your orders, sir?” she murmured.

Kylo Ren surveyed his blazing surroundings. He had already spent too much time here, to only partial satisfaction. He disliked such delays. “Kill them all, Captain Phasma, and search the village. Every building, every possible storage facility and place of concealment. When your troops have razed it to the ground, search the ground. Scanners, perceptors. You know what to look for.”

A single nod and she turned. A line of troopers stood before the assembled surviving villagers. “On my command!” Weapons were raised. The reactions of the villagers were typical. Some stepped forward, insolent to the last. Others fell to their knees. There was whimpering and crying and shouts of defiance. None of it lasted very long.

_“Fire!”_

It wasn’t a massacre. In the lexicon of the First Order it was nothing more than a prescribed chastisement. Appropriate retribution for harboring a fugitive of note. It was the nature of the tutorial that was important, not the numbers involved. It took less than a minute.

When it was over, and the only sounds were methodical chatter among the troopers mixed with a variety of unholy crackling, they dispersed to carry out a final survey and scan of the debris— inorganic and otherwise. Standing by himself, one trooper with a bloody face mask was startled when a hand came down on his shoulder. Though the hand belonged to a comrade, the first trooper did not relax.

“Notice you didn’t fire. Blaster jam?” Automatically, the trooper being questioned nodded in response. His Comrade gestured knowingly and clapped him on the shoulder. “Turn it in when we get back to base. Let the tech boys deal with it and get yourself a new one.”

“Thanks. I will.”

No sooner had his helpful colleague departed to rejoin his own unit than the trooper found himself gaping at the tall, dark-clad figure striding purposefully toward the singular shuttle that had set down in the midst of battle. Though he willed himself to move, to turn away, he found he could not. He remained rooted in place, clutching his unfired weapon, staring despite himself.

And in response, the figure of Kylo Ren turned and looked sideways, directly at the soldier. The trooper saw only light reflecting off a mask, and his own fear.

_He knows. He must know. And I’m… dead._

But he wasn’t. The glance lasted barely a second. Then Ren resumed his pace, deep in thought as he strode toward the shuttle. In the course of returning to his ship he passed a blaster lying on the ground. It was Poe’s, the one that had come within an arm’s length of killing him. Once he was beyond its reach he touched it—but not with his hands. It rose, seemingly of its own accord, and flew free, smashing into a nearby structure and scaring the wits out of an idling stormtrooper unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.

The purification of the village extended to its outskirts, where a clutch of troopers had just finished searching the damaged X-wing that had been abandoned there. Having done all they could with the tools and equipment at hand, they prepared to return to their units. Specialized gear could have reduced the Resistance fighter to its component parts, but that was not how they had been ordered to proceed.

“Nothing there,” declared the last of the quartet as he descended from the fighter’s cockpit. “The usual Resistance trash; that’s all. Deep scan shows nothing in the fuselage or elsewhere.”

As soon as he was safely out of range, his companions activated the pair of heavy weapons they had brought to bear on the hiding place. A couple of bursts was all it took to reduce both ship and outcropping to rubble.

The sound of the exploding X-wing reverberated across the gravel flats and dunes. Far away now, a solitary spherical droid looked back even as it continued to flee. The fireball that rose into the sky suggested the detonation of something far more volatile than primitive buildings and scrapped mechanicals. If he could have rolled faster, the frightened droid would have done so.

Contrary to much popular thought, desert worlds are not quiet at night. In the absence of light, an entirely different ecology springs to life. Moving with greater caution, BB-8 tried not to pause at each howl, every _meep_ , the sounds of clawed feet scraping against bare rock. There were things in the vacant, wild regions of underdeveloped planets that would gladly take apart a solitary droid just to see what made it tick. Or roll, he knew. His internal gyros threatened to send him tumbling wildly at the very thought of such an encounter.

Droids such as him were not meant for unpopulated places, and he desperately desired to find others like himself. Or, failing that, even people.

* * *

The shackles that Poe had worn on the troop transport were removed as soon as he and his captors disembarked. Aboard

the Star Destroyer, there was no reason to physically restrain the prisoner. Apparently enjoying themselves, or perhaps merely impatient to get out of their armor, his escort chivvied him along with what he considered to be unnecessary roughness. Not that stormtroopers of any ilk were noted for their individual diplomacy. Considering whom he had tried to shoot, he knew he ought to consider himself fortunate that they had brought him aboard still attached to all his important appendages.

A physical state of being, he knew, that could be altered at any moment.

On the other side of the enormous and impressive receiving bay, other troopers were filing out, grateful that more of their number had not been lost on the expedition and looking forward to some rest and food. Intent on reliving the battle below, they paid no attention to one of their own who fell behind. When he was convinced no one was looking at him, the trooper turned and raced back into the open transport. He removed his helmet and proceeded to void the contents of his stomach into the nearest refuse receptacle. The terror in his expression was palpable. Fortunately, there was no one there to witness his disgrace.

There was, however, now someone behind him.

Terror gave way to cold fear as he found himself gazing back at Captain Phasma. How much had the senior officer seen? How much did she know? Too much, as it turned out.

Aloof yet commanding, she indicated the rifle he still carried. “FN-2187. I understand you experienced some difficulty with your weapon. Please be so good as to submit it for inspection by your division’s technical team.”

“Yes, Captain.” How he managed to reply without stammering he did not know. Instinct as opposed to training, he decided. Self-preservation.

“And who gave you permission to remove that helmet?”

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

He could feel her disgust as he struggled to put the helmet back over his head. “Report to my division at once,” Phasma said.

Worse, he knew miserably, was likely to come later.

* * *

It was where technology went to die.

Mountains of metal, cliffs of plasticene derivatives, oceans of splayed ceramics were jumbled together in a phantasmagoric industrial badlands that none dared enter, for fear of being

poisoned, cut, or lost forever. None except a very few, for whom daring was as much a sense as sight or hearing.

One such individual clung insectlike to a dark metal wall pimpled with protruding sensors, manipulators, and other decaying mechanisms. Clad in light protective goggles with green lenses, face mask, gloves, and gray desert clothing, the busy figure was burdened with a substantial backpack. A multifunction staff strapped to her back made precision work in such tight and dangerous quarters difficult. Wielding an assortment of tools, the scavenger was excising an assortment of small devices from one metal wall. One after another, bits of booty found their way into the satchel that hung below the slender figure.

When the satchel was full, the scavenger secured it shut and commenced a perilous descent, avoiding sharp projections and threatening gaps in the wall. Arriving at the bottom of the metallic canyon, the figure hefted a piece of larger salvage recovered earlier and then, laboring under the double load, headed toward a distant slit of sunlight.

Outside the metal caverns and at last clear of danger, the scavenger shoved the goggles up on her forehead and squinted at the blasted surroundings. She was nearly twenty, with dark hair, darker eyes, and a hint of something deeper within. There was a freshness about her that the surrounding harsh landscape had failed to eliminate. Anyone glancing at her would have thought her soft: a serious error of judgment.

It had been a respectable day’s work, enough to ensure she would eat tonight. Pulling a canteen from her belt, she wiped sweat from her face and shook the remaining contents of the container into her upturned mouth. _There should be more_ , she told herself as she began tapping the side of the canteen. The last few drops sometimes clung stubbornly to the insulated interior.

Concluding that she had drained the container of all its contents, she reattached it to her belt facing inward. The satchel and the larger piece of salvage were secured to a piece of sheet metal, which she sent sliding down the mountain of sand in front of her. Off to one side, shade was provided by one engine of a decomposing, old-model Star Destroyer. Too big to cut up, its technology obsolete, it had been left to molder on the hillside. In the desert climate, decay would take thousands of years. Being something less than portable, the great hulk of a shell was ignored while opportunistic scavengers such as Rey plundered its interior for saleable components.

A second shard of sheet metal served as a sled for the girl to follow the results of the day’s labor down the dune slope. Practice allowed her to manipulate the metal skillfully enough so that she neither fell off nor crashed into any of the scattered debris that littered the dune face.

At the bottom she stood and dusted herself off. Her dun-hued garb was desert basic, designed to protect the wearer from the sun and preserve body moisture. It was inexpensive, easily repaired, and unlovely. The same could be said for the clunky, boxy, beat-up speeder parked nearby. If the battered, rusty vehicle had a redeeming feature, it was the over-and-under twin engines. Since one or another tended to flare out and die at any given moment, their utility stemmed more from their redundancy than from any ability to supply speed or maneuverability.

After fastening her acquisitions to the transport, she climbed into the driver’s seat. For an anxious moment it seemed as if neither engine would ignite. Then one, and finally the other, roared to life. That was her life, Rey reflected: a succession of anxious moments, interrupted only by the novelty of occasional panic. All part and parcel of trying to survive on a backwater world as harsh and unforgiving as Jakku.

Racing along the flat desert floor, she allowed the speeder’s perceptors to guide her between endless rows and piles of ruined starcraft, obsolete or fatally damaged military equipment, civilian mechanicals that had outlived their prescribed lifetime, and even long- downed Imperial vessels. No one visited here. No one came to take inventory or write history. In these times there was no nostalgia for death: especially not for that of machines.

Instrumentation blinked. Barrier ahead: too much wreckage through which to maneuver. She knew the spot.

Though going over would use more power, at this junction the only alternative was a wide and potentially dangerous detour. At least at altitude, she knew, there would be the benefit of cooler air.

Lifting, the speeder rose over the crumpled metal before it, soaring to a necessary height. For the hell of it, she executed a barrel roll; a small moment of exhilaration in an otherwise humdrum existence. By the time she came out of it, Niima Outpost was plainly visible just ahead. Niima: center of the galaxy, repository of manifold cultures, offering to its myriad inhabitants a never-ending succession of entertainment, education, and enjoyable distractions.

Her smile twisted. Niima was a functioning armpit of a town and nothing more, a place where no one asked questions and everyone went quietly about their own business. It was just large and developed enough that if you dropped dead in the street, there was a fifty percent chance someone might go to the trouble of raking up your body and passing it along to a local protein recycler, or cremator, or burial tech, if either of the latter were part of your personal philosophy and so indicated on your identification, and provided there were funds available to pay for your chosen means of disposal.

Otherwise, the deserts of Jakku would take care of the remains in their own good time, and without rendering any opinions on the virtues of the deceased.

As long as she could work, Rey had no intention of suffering such a fate. No one does, of course. Death displays nothing if not variety in its methods, which are often surprising and sometimes amusing. She parked her speeder, then unloaded her salvage and hauled it toward the community structure that had been built for that purpose and was open to all. No one offered to help her with the heavy load. In Niima, youth and gender were no barrier to neighborhood indifference.

Once inside the tented, shaded structure, she unpacked the results of the day’s work, leaned her staff against a worktable, and began cleaning. When it came to salvage, appearance did matter. Compared to the strenuous work she had put into its recovery, a bit of polishing and buffing added little to the overall effort. Around her, other scavengers were doing the same. Humans and nonhumans communicated freely, commenting on one another’s findings and exchanging gossip, mostly in the local patois. They filled a good deal of the available workspace. When not chatting amiably with one another, they strove to learn where their competitors were finding their best salvage.

Also, they were not above stealing from one another when the opportunity presented itself. Rey kept a close eye on her goods.

Glancing up from her work, her gaze happened to fall outside the tent. The biped whose movements had caught her eye was human. A woman, clad in wrappings of deep maroon that shaded to purple, a band of turquoise makeup across her eyes and forefingers indicating her clan. Standing on a ship’s open ramp, she surveyed her surroundings. A moment later a similarly clad and decorated boy appeared and moved to join her. A domestic exchange ensued, during which the adult did something to the child’s hair. Returning to her work, Rey was only partially aware that the brush she was using on a narrow piece of salvaged electronics had begun to imitate the same caressing, grooming movement of the woman’s fingers.

Coming up beside her, one of Unkar Plutt’s assistants barked at her and gestured in her direction with his staff, implying it would be in her best interests to focus on her work and not allow herself to be distracted. Without another glance in the direction of the mother and child, Rey returned to her own work.

Finishing sooner than she expected, she made her way across the tent to the exchange booth. Fashioned from a small salvaged sand crawler, dark brown from rust and age, it was surrounded by piles of recently purchased components. In contrast to the dominant tenting, it boasted a solid suspended ceiling in the form of another piece of salvaged metal. In Niima, the most disagreeable part of surrendering salvage was taking payment. This was due not to the quality of the food one received as payment but to the nature of the individual distributing it.

The lumpish shape seated slightly above and in front of her was not human. The Crolute’s stout build terminated at the top in a thick, fleshy, hairless skull whose most prominent feature was a broad, flat nose. The nasal cavity extended all the way up and into the bald, metal-capped head. A separate layer of flesh flowed downward like a second neck. Loose black pants were tucked into heavy work boots, while the long-sleeved, dun-colored shirt struggled to contain additional layers of neck. Half a dozen bicolored metal plates hung from his neck and shoulders to just below the thick knees. Muscles were hidden beneath an additional layer of blubber.

While she knew he looked forward to their occasional business dealings, she could not say the same. Since that would have required not only listening to him but looking at him, she always strove to keep their encounters as brief as possible.

Unkar Plutt, on the other hand, was delighted to extend their encounters for as long as she could stand it. He always took his time when examining her pieces, letting his gaze rove slowly over everything she put before him, making her wait. Only when the bounds of common courtesy had been markedly surpassed did he deign to acknowledge her presence.

“Rey. A decent offering, if nothing remarkable. Today you get a quarter portion.”

She did not give him the pleasure of seeing her disappointment, just took the pair of packets that appeared in the transfer drawer in front of him. One transparent package contained beige powder; the other, a more solid slab of something green.

“That’s my girl,” Plutt commended her.

Not replying, she turned and left, moving as quickly as she could without alerting him to the fact that his presence disgusted her. She could feel his eyes all over her until she exited the big tent.

* * *

Out on the salt flats of Jakku, the only place to shelter from the sun was inside something one had built oneself. Rey’s speeder was an insignificant speck against the fiery, setting mass as she slowed on approach to her residence. Climbing down, she left it parked where it had stopped. There was no reason to secure it. Few came this way. Those who did, including the pirates and bandits who haunted the desert wastelands, wouldn’t waste time trying to steal a vehicle as dated and banged- up as her transport.

Unloading, she gathered her belongings and headed for the makeshift entrance that led into the belly of the half-destroyed AT-AT walker. It might be an ancient, rotting, rusting example of now useless military might, but to Rey, it was home.

After carefully unloading her gear and supplies onto the homemade cabinets and shelves, she remembered to make a scratch mark on one interior wall of semi-malleable material. She had long since stopped bothering to count the scratches, which now numbered in the thousands.

Bits and pieces of homemade décor ornamented isolated alcoves and corners: here a handmade doll fashioned from reclaimed orange flight suit material, there a cluster of dried desert flowers; on the far end of the bed insert, a pillow that had cost her a day’s work. It wasn’t much, but where such examples of defiant individuality had been placed, they softened the drabness of their surroundings.

Green slab-stuff sizzled in a makeshift cook pan. Opening the packet of beige powder, she dumped it into a tin half full of water. A brief stir activated the mixture, which promptly expanded and solidified into a loaf of something like bread. She slid the cooked meat off its pan and onto a plate, then slipped the loaf out of its container. Taking a seat, she dug into both as if she had not eaten in weeks. It seemed that these days all too many meals were like that.

When she had finished, she picked up the plate and licked it dry before setting it aside. Rising, she moved to a window that looked in the direction of Niima. The signature contrail of a single ascending ship streaked the flat dark blue of the evening sky like chalk on slate. Wiping her mouth, she turned to a shelf where an old, badly damaged Rebellion helmet rested. She stared at it for a moment, then picked it up and put it on.

Still wearing the helmet, she made her way outside into the cooling air. Nothing much to see tonight, she reflected. The sun going down. Tomorrow morning, the sun coming up. And so on to another day, not unlike its predecessor and the interminably repetitive ones that had gone before.

She tried to think of something else— something that had changed, something that seemed different—if only to keep her mind from atrophying. But there was nothing. Nothing new. Certainly nothing to daydream about. On Jakku, things never changed.

There was that occasional mention in the market of a rising new power in the galaxy. An organization that called itself “The First Order.” Determined, relentless. Nobody seemed to know much else about it. Not something to worry about here, she knew. Whatever it was, whatever it represented, it wouldn’t come to this backward, out-of- the-way world. Nobody came to Jakku.

She was alone.

Something squealed that was not shifting sand.

Rising quickly, she removed the helmet. The sound could not have come from within its long-dead electronics. Even as she inspected the headpiece, the noise was repeated. A hysterical, panicked beeping. Whirling, she ran back into the dwelling and emerged a moment later clutching her staff. The beeping was sounding continuously now, no less frantic for its frequency.

Reaching the top of a nearby dune, she found herself gazing down at a sight as curious as it was unexpected. Trapped in a net of local organic material, a small spherical droid was attempting to escape its prison, an effort rendered extremely difficult by the fearful mechanical’s total absence of limbs. Mounted atop a squat, four-footed, square-helmeted luggabeast, a native Teedo was struggling to constrain and reel in the legless but overactive and insubordinate droid.

When uncertain as to anything taking place on Jakku, Rey knew, it was always reasonable to assume that something untoward was happening. At least until she understood the particulars of the confrontation she was witnessing, it was only right to call it to a momentary halt.

_“Tal’ama parqual!”_

Motion ceased as both the Teedo and BB-8 stopped wrestling and turned to peer up at her.

_“Parqual! Zatana tappan-aboo!”_

Making an effort to simultaneously control both its heavy-headed mount and its captive, the Teedo yelled back through the mouthpiece of the goggle- eyed helmet that covered its reptilian cranium. Its attitude was decidedly unconciliatory, even threatening. Meanwhile the hovering head of the imprisoned droid swiveled rapidly back and forth, trying to watch both Teedo and human simultaneously.

Rey immediately took offense, not only at the Teedo’s tone, but at its speech, which far exceeded the bounds of common courtesy that existed between fellow desert-dwellers and made difficult coexistence possible. The luggabeast rider knew better, and its intemperate words were enough to decide her on a course of action.

Descending the far side of the dune, she drew her knife and began hacking at the netting.

 _“Namago!”_ she growled. _“Ta bana contoqual!”_

Observing that it was on the verge of losing its prize, the Teedo unleashed a stream of indigenous invective. None of it had the slightest effect on Rey, who continued cutting away at the mesh until the native promulgated a slur that would have been vile in any language. Pausing in her work, she turned to face the tightly clothed creature, gesturing with her knife and fairly spitting a reply.

_“Noma. Ano tamata, zatana.”_

Long and drawn out, the Teedo’s response to this would have been unprintable on any of a hundred civilized worlds. Turning the metal-enclosed head of its mount, the unpleasant scavenger departed in the opposite direction. As soon as the native was a safe distance away, BB-8 rolled clear of the netting and began beeping loudly and challengingly in its direction.

“Shhh,” Rey hastened to quiet the droid. “Don’t tempt it. Enough insults can override anyone’s common sense, even a Teedo’s.” BB-8 instantly went silent. Together, the two of them tracked the luggabeast until it and its rider had vanished from view.

An electronic query drew her attention. Rey knelt down beside the questioning droid.

“He’s just a Teedo. A local. Not so unlike me, really.” Her expression twisted. “Except this one was particularly impolite. Wanted you for parts.” Leaning forward slightly, she studied the top of the droid’s head. “Your antenna’s bent.” As she examined the scored markings on her softly beeping new acquaintance, her interest continued to deepen. “Where’d you come from?”

The droid beeped a reply. Pursing her lips, Rey shook her head.

“I don’t know what that means.” A string of beeps followed. This time, she smiled. “Oh. Classified. Really? Well, me too. Big secret.” Rising, she started back toward her dwelling. “I’ll keep mine and you can keep yours.” Raising an arm, she gestured. “Niima Outpost is that way. Stay off Kelvin Ridge. Keep away from the Sinking Fields up north or you’ll drown in the sand. Otherwise you should be okay. The closer you get to Niima, the less likely you are to run into a marauding Teedo.”

Beeping softly, the droid started to follow, halting only when she turned on it sharply.

“Don’t follow me. You can’t come with me. I don’t want anyone with me. You understand?” More beeping, distinctly anxious this time. She grew angry. “No! And don’t ask me again. I’m not your friend. I don’t have any friends. This is Jakku. Nobody has friends here. Just fellow survivors.” Turning once more, she moved off with longer strides.

The beeping that sounded now was laced with unmistakable desperation, poignant enough to make her stop. Turning once more, she looked back at the imploring droid. She didn’t like it— him. Her fondness for most machinery extended to its trade equivalent in food. But she found herself feeling sorry for this small, helpless droid. At least, she told herself, this one seemed harmless enough. And notwithstanding her warning, there was no guarantee that the Teedo might not come back.

She nodded reluctantly in the droid’s direction. Immediately, it rolled up beside her. Together, they headed for her abode.

“In the morning,” she said firmly, “you go.” A responsive beep acknowledged her decision. “Fine, you’re welcome.” Another beeping, which made her laugh. “Yes, there’s a lot of sand here. Beebee- Ate? Okay. Hello, Beebee-Ate. My name is Rey. No, just Rey.” Still more beeping, and her smile disappeared.

“Look, you’re not going to talk all night, are you? Because that won’t work. You know how humans recharge. We don’t plug in: We sleep.” A second acknowledging squeal. “Good. Keep that in mind and we’ll get along ’til morning. _Quietly_.”

A single beep left hanging in the dry desert air, they disappeared behind the dune.


	3. Chapter 3

THE HOLDING CELL had no bars. They were not needed. There was nowhere aboard the ship for a prisoner to go. Even had there been, the single occupant was shackled tightly to his chair, unable to do more than turn his head. Poe knew he should have been flattered. They were taking no chances with him. But all he could think about was how he had failed his mission.

So sunk was he in depression that he scarcely reacted when they beat him. Delivered with practiced skill, designed to hurt but not result in permanent damage, the blows fell intermittently, at different times of the day on different parts of his body. He did his best to shut out the pain, much as he succeeded in shutting out the questions. What he did not know was that they were merely a softening-up, an introduction to his principal interrogator.

That formidable individual arrived in due course. Recognizing him from the attack on the village, Poe threw himself against his bonds in a final, supreme effort to break free. Demanding the last of his strength, the failure left him completely exhausted. It was just as well, he consoled himself. Fighting against the figure now standing before him would be counterproductive at best. Fighting and resistance, however, were two different things, and he resolved to focus what remained of his energy on the latter. Doubtless his inquisitor could sense his determination. Was the masked figure smiling? There was no way to tell.

While his interrogator’s greeting was far from challenging, the sarcasm underlying Kylo Ren’s words was plain enough.

“I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board. Revealing yourself through your futile attempt on my life was foolish. Revenge is little more than an adolescent concession to personal vanity. Even had you not been slow and ill-prepared, Tekka was already dead. Comfortable?”

Poe did his best to sound nonchalant. “Not really.” He gestured as best he could with a shackled hand. “The accommodations leave something to be desired.”

“I regret the necessity. They are gratuitous in my presence. But those others who have made your acquaintance possess only the most primitive abilities, and further defiance on your part would demand their unnecessary exertions.” He bent toward the prisoner. “None of this unpleasantness need be necessary. We both wanted the same thing from the old man. Perhaps he was more forthcoming with you than he was with me.”

Poe made a show of seriously considering the proposal before replying phlegmatically, “Might wanna rethink your technique. Hard to get cooperation from a dead man.”

Ren stood back, looming over the prisoner. “A truism on which you might personally wish to reflect. It is pathetic, though. Is it not? You and I, both in pursuit of a ghost.” His tone darkened. “Where did you put it?”

Poe stared up at him innocently. “Where did I put what?”

“Please. All time is transitory, and mine especially so. This will go more quickly and less awkwardly if we dispense with childish nonsense.”

Poe readied himself. “The Resistance will not be intimidated by you.”

“As you wish, then. There is no ‘Resistance’ in this room. Only the pilot Poe Dameron. And I.”

A hand extended toward the shackled prisoner. Silent agony followed soon after.

“Tell me,” Ren murmured. “Tell me.”

* * *

General Hux was waiting for him. As expected, the interrogation had not taken long. The senior officer did not have to ask if it had been successful. No matter how determined the prisoner, no matter his or her individual resolve, Ren’s questioning invariably produced the same results.

The metal-covered face regarded the general, the voice that emanated from behind it dispassionate. “The pilot does not have it. The map to Skywalker’s location is in a droid. An ordinary BB unit.”

Hux was plainly pleased, though that meant nothing to Ren.

“That makes it easy, then. The directions are in a droid, and the droid is still on the planet.”

“Even a single planet offers innumerable places for concealment,” Ren pointed out.

Hux did not dispute this. “True enough, but the world below us is primitive. A simple droid will gravitate toward support facilities for its kind. Of these, Jakku has few enough.” He turned away, planning. “With any luck we may not even have to search for it ourselves.”

* * *

Even to a droid, Niima Outpost was unimpressive. BB-8 took it all in, recording every visual in detail for possible future reference. Nothing the droid saw was encouraging.

Having unloaded him from her speeder, Rey once more hefted the satchel that bulged from a new day’s scavenging. Eying the indecisive droid, she nodded toward one part of town.

“There’s a trader in Bay Three name of Horvins. Don’t be put off by his appearance—he’s actually a pretty decent sort. Might be willing to give you a lift, wherever you’re going. So…” She paused a moment, considering, and then shrugged. “Good-bye.”

She had only taken a few steps when a series of beeps caused her to look back and laugh. “Oh, really? Now you can’t leave? I thought you had somewhere special to be.”

Plaintive and anxious, the electronic response was nothing like what she expected. Retracing her steps, she knelt to stare into the droid’s dark eye.

“Don’t give up. He still might show up. Whoever it is. Classified. Believe me, I know all about waiting.”

The droid beeped questioningly.

“For my family. They’ll be back. One day.” She tried to smile and failed miserably.

BB-8 moved as close to her as protocol permitted and beeped softly. It caused her to rise suddenly, plainly annoyed by the query.

“ _What?_ No! I’m not _crying_.” This time when she started off she did not look back.

She didn’t have to. Ignoring her admonitions, the droid tagged along, beeping continuously, irritating her with distressing consistency.

“I was not!” she continued to insist. “Just because a little water flows from a human eye doesn’t mean it’s crying. Check your info dump.” She rubbed at the eye in question. “Nothing but a piece of grit. This whole world is nothing but a big piece of grit.” The droid’s comment on this left her not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“No, Beebee-Ate. I don’t have a world in my eye.”

But her eyes continued to water as she made her way deeper into town, and she gave up trying to persuade the droid to leave her alone.

 _Maybe one day things will change_ , she told herself absently as she waited her turn in the line. Like the hot, dry desert wind, reality cut in as she stepped up to the front and unloaded her goods. She hid the wave of revulsion that swept through her. Maybe one day, before the universe died, Unkar Plutt would take a bath.

The merchant made his usual show of inspecting her salvage, but his attention was actually on the rotund droid that had parked itself behind her and slightly to one side.

“Two interlifts. I’ll give you one quarter portion. For the pair.”

She reacted immediately. “Last week they were a half portion each, and you said you were looking for more.” She indicated the two devices. “Here’s two of ’em.”

Plutt’s flesh rippled. “Conditions have changed.” He hefted one of the components and squinted at it. “Besides, this one is missing a membrane. I don’t like paying for incomplete equipment.” Before she could object further, he leaned forward. “But what about the droid?”

“What about him?” she asked guardedly.

“Is he with you?” Plutt smiled. Which, if anything, was worse than his usual expression of indifference. “I’ll pay for him. He looks functional.”

Behind her, BB-8 began to beep apprehensively. Rey ignored him, intrigued.

“He might be.”

“Why then didn’t you offer him up together with the interlifters?” Plutt was drooling. Normally that was a cue for her to flee while she still had control of her stomach. This time she ignored the bile.

“As you say, he’s functional.” She spoke with studied indifference. “I can always use a functioning droid around the house.”

Plutt begged to differ. “This one? Of what use could it be to someone like yourself? It has no service limbs.”

“Maybe I enjoy the company. You said you’d pay. How much?”

His pleasure apparent, Plutt could not contain himself. “Sixty portions.”

Somehow she managed to restrain her reaction to a single muscular twitch. Sixty portions would feed her for… for…for a very long time. Time enough to do other work that had been long neglected. Time enough to relax and rest her bones. Time enough for— _leisure_ was a word that had long ago been dropped from her vocabulary.

Beeping furiously, BB-8 nudged her from behind. The droid had been following the conversation from the beginning and was not liking the turn it had taken, not at all.

“Quiet,” she muttered.

Either the droid didn’t understand or else he was willfully ignoring her instructions. Having little patience with obstreperous mechanisms, she reached over and thumbed a sequence on his head. Immediately, that portion of the droid slid sideways until it made contact with the ground. No further beeps issued from its speaker. Artificial consciousness was absent now, and it was just a quiescent piece of machinery, a spherical piece of junk.

But apparently one that held some value, she told herself. How much value? Before agreeing to anything, it behooved her to find out.

“One hundred portions.”

Plutt was patently surprised by the counterdemand, and just as obviously unhappy. Not that he was a stranger to argument. Scavengers wouldn’t be scavengers if they didn’t frequently dispute the value of their finds. It was just that he had not expected it from this one, especially considering what he had already offered. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered right now except gaining possession of the droid. So he smiled anew.

“Your audacity always has exceeded your size, Rey. I’ve always admired that about you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m wonderful. Do we have a deal or not?” She stayed expressionless.

“How can I resist the force of your personality?” he replied in mock alarm. “One hundred it is.” Atop his battered throne, he turned. “As you can imagine, it will take me a moment to assemble your payment. Please be patient.”

Rey could hardly believe it. He’d accepted the counteroffer! She had only made it to see the expression on his face, never dreaming he would readily accede. A hundred full portions! Eagerly, she opened her satchel in preparation for receiving the expected bounty. This was one heavy load she was not going to mind toting. Her elation extended as far as making small talk with the detested Plutt.

“What are you going to do with the droid? He travels well, but as you pointed out, he doesn’t have any service limbs.”

“Oh, I’m not going to keep him for myself.” Plutt spoke absently as he continued to stack full nutrition portions beside his seat. “Certain parties have been asking around about a droid like that. None of my business what they want it for. Smart traders don’t delve deeply into their customers’ motivations.” He glanced over at her. “If I find out, I’ll do you the courtesy of letting you know. Meanwhile, I’d like to think this exchange’ll be good for both of us. That’s the best kind of business, after all.” As he started placing packets into the transfer drawer, she moved to take them.

“That’s my girl.” His tone oozed something more than false possessiveness. There was an eagerness in his voice that was something new even for Unkar Plutt. An eagerness that all but translated into triumph.

It took a real effort for her to let go of the first pile of food packets and draw her hand back. She glanced down at the inert droid, thinking hard. At last she looked back at the merchant.

“Actually—the droid’s not for sale. I made a mistake.” Willing herself to do so, she shoved the brace of food packets to the back of the transfer drawer.

Plutt was beside himself, any thought of restraint gone. As his voice rose, other scavengers in the room looked up from their work. Even for the irritable merchant, the outburst was exceptional.

“Sweetheart,” he bellowed, his tone belying his choice of words, “we already had a deal!”

Grinning tightly, she echoed his earlier observation. “Conditions have changed.” Reaching down, she reactivated the droid. BB-8’s head immediately swung up into its natural

dorsal position. Had the droid possessed eyelids, it would have blinked.

“Conditions have…” Plutt looked like was he going to explode. “You think you can be snide with me, girl? You think you can play games here? Who do you think you are?”

She drew herself up with as much pride as she could muster. “I am an independent operator, scavenger of the metal lands, free of debt and beholden to no one. Least of all to a small-time trader named Plutt.”

“You are… you are…” The merchant tried to control himself. “You have nothing. You are nothing!”

“On the contrary,” she shot back, “I just told you who I am. As to what I have, that would be my freedom and my pride.” Murmurs of assent rose from behind her, from the vicinity of the worktables. She had said aloud what her colleagues and compatriots, regardless of species, all wanted to say but dared not. At least not to Plutt’s ugly face.

All pretense of deference gone, Rey took a step toward the chair and shot the merchant behind it so steely a glance that he visibly flinched. BB-8 reacted with a beep of admiration. Resisting the urge to give the sphere a reassuring pat, Rey concluded the day’s dealings with Unkar Plutt.

“The droid is not for sale.”

With that she turned and headed toward the big tent’s exit, the excitedly beeping droid pacing her effortlessly.

Plutt watched her go. He was starting to calm down, his mind working systematically. The confrontation had almost escalated beyond repair. Such loss of control was not like him. In the course of negotiations he would often shout, yell, occasionally pound the service shelf in front of him. But all the time, he was calculating. It was all about the business, all about the profit. Never personal. Not even now, when it involved the lovely but disrespectful

Rey. That was something of a pity, he mused as he picked up a communicator.

A voice answered. Ignoring the newly arrived scavenger who had tentatively approached, Plutt turned away and lowered his voice.

“I have a job for you.” With a free hand he slammed the service portal opening shut, leaving the scavenger holding his bag of goods and staring blankly at the merchant’s back.

* * *

Slumped and shackled in the seat, Poe was still breathing. Beyond that, he no longer cared much what happened to him. It wasn’t his fault, he kept telling himself. For an ordinary person, no matter how strong they thought themselves, resisting the probing of a creature like Kylo Ren was simply not possible. He had tried. There was no shame in the failure.

He didn’t much care what they might do with him now, though he could guess. Having given up what little of value he had possessed, he was no longer of any use to them. There was nothing about X- wing weapons systems the First Order did not already know, and as a mere pilot, he would not be expected to know anything about military movements or tactics. He had rendered himself expendable. No, not expendable. Less than that. He was now extraneous. As such, he doubted they would keep him alive. He would not receive food, but he might become it.

His head came up as the door to the holding cell whooshed open and a stormtrooper entered. At least, Poe mused, it would be over soon. He could look forward to freedom from any further tormenting thoughts. The trooper’s words to the room’s single guard surprised him, however.

“I’m taking the prisoner to Kylo Ren.” Poe sagged in his seat. What more did they want from him?

Everything, anything of value that he had known was now known to them. Had they overlooked some line of questioning? He could not think of one. But then, at the moment, his mind was not functioning properly.

The guard wondered, too. “I was not told to expect you. Why would Ren wish to question the prisoner outside the cell?”

The new arrival’s voice darkened. “Do you dare to question Kylo Ren’s motives?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant! I…” Without another word, the guard proceeded to release the prisoner from his shackles. It took twice as long as it should have, since in his sudden nervousness he kept fumbling the task.

Procedure demanded that the trooper keep his weapon trained on the prisoner at all times as together they made their way down the corridor. Another time, another place, Poe might have considered making a grab for it. But he was far too weakened to contemplate such a likely fatal effort. In any case, the trooper seemed as competent as all his kind and gave no indication of relaxing his vigilance.

A rough prod with the weapon’s muzzle caused Poe to stumble and nearly fall. So exhausted was he that he could not even raise an objection or mutter a curse.

“Turn here,” the trooper commanded sharply.

The passageway they entered seemed unusually narrow and poorly lit. In contrast to the one they had just left, they encountered no personnel. No troopers, no techs, no general crew.

A gloved hand clutching his shoulder brought him to a halt. Poe took in his claustrophobic surroundings. An odd place to carry out an execution, he thought resignedly. Apparently they were not going to make a show of him.

The trooper’s words came low and fast. “Listen carefully and pay attention. You do exactly as I say, I can get you out of here.”

Within Poe’s wounded brain something like cognizance stirred. He turned and gawked at the trooper’s mask. “If… _what_? Who are you?”

In lieu of reply, the trooper removed his helmet—a helmet that had been cleaned of the blood that had been smeared across it by the flailing hand of a dying trooper far below, in the course of a minor battle on an obscure corner of the planet Jakku.

 _Not bad..._ the small thought had slipped between Poe´s abused brain cells as he studied the sweaty face of the man in front of him. Those eyes shining bright with a very familiar type of rush.

“Will you be quiet and just listen to me? This is a _rescue_. I’m helping you _escape_.” When a stunned Poe didn’t respond, the trooper shook his shoulder firmly. “Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

Poe finally stopped gaping at the dark-skinned young man and found his voice. “What’s going on here? Are you—with the Resistance?”

 _“What?”_ The trooper indicated their surroundings. “That’s crazy! How long do you think anyone with Resistance sympathies would last on a ship like this? You’re under continuous observation. You so much as wink the wrong way and before you know it, the psytechs are all over you. No, I’m just breaking you out.” He cast a nervous glance up and down the narrow, dim corridor. “Can you fly a…”

Having long since surrendered anything resembling hope, it took Poe more than a moment to begin regaining it. “I can fly anything. Wings, no wings, push-pull echo force, in or out of lightspeed—just show it to me. But why are you helping me?”

The trooper spoke while staring nervously down the corridor. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Poe shook his head, not buying it for a second. “Buddy, if we’re gonna do this, we have to be honest with each other.”

The trooper stared at him for a long moment. “I need a pilot.”

Poe nodded confidently. A wide grin broke across his face. “Well, you just got me.”

FN-2187 was taken aback by Poe’s quick agreement. And he smiled too. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Poe insisted. He was liking the boy in front of him more and more with every passing second. “We’re gonna do this. If you can get me into something that flies, that is.”

The trooper slipped his helmet back over his head. For an instant, the whole enterprise teetered on the edge of believability. Was he being set up? Poe wondered. No longer needed, was he being made the subject of some cruel psychological trial, only to be thrown away at the conclusion? Yet there was definitely something about the young trooper that made Poe feel he could trust him. His decisive manner, his looks… There was something that said _“throw in your lot with this one and you won’t be sorry that you did.”_

The trooper pointed back in the direction they had come. “This way. And stop looking so positive. Optimism doesn’t fit a prisoner’s profile.”

Poe obediently lowered his head and adopted as morose an expression as possible. Once, as they re-entered the main corridor, a hint of a smile broke through, to be quickly quashed.

The longer no one intercepted them and no one questioned their passage, the more Poe dared to allow himself to hope. What they were attempting bordered on the insane. Escaping from the custody of the First Order, much less from inside a Star Destroyer, was nearly impossible.

Nearly.

The very unfeasibility of it worked in their favor. He could not be a prisoner trying to escape, because prisoners simply did not escape. Just as stormtroopers did not desert their posts to facilitate such flight.

Ordinary troopers were one thing; the group of officers coming toward them as they entered the hangar was quite something else. Face still resolutely aimed downward, Poe tensed and fought not to meet their eyes. Beside him, the trooper nudged him gently with the end of his blaster and muttered tightly.

“Stay calm, stay calm.”

Poe swallowed as the officers drew near—and walked on by.

“I am calm,” Poe whispered.

“I was talking to myself,” the trooper explained as they maintained their methodical tread toward the far side of the enclosure.

“Oh, boy,” Poe whispered, this time to himself.

“Act nervous,” the trooper advised him. “As if you’re being sent to your doom.”

Poe swallowed. “Thanks for the tip.”

The craft they were approaching was a Special Forces TIE fighter. Poe couldn’t help it—raising his gaze, he raked the ship with his eyes. If one discounted its origins, its dark angles took on a deadly beauty. No one stood near it: no techs, no maintenance workers, and no guards. What reason could there be to have to post a guard beside a ship inside a Star Destroyer? The entry hatch was open. Open and inviting: He had to will himself not to break into a run. There was no telling if the fighter was functional, or if it was being monitored by automated hangar security. The hangar’s atmosphere was contained, of course. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to speculate about such things, since he would be a cold, dead protein crisp floating in space. How to get the massive access portal open?

 _One thing at a time_ , he told himself. Get to the ship first. Then get on board. Find out if it was operational.

A tech droid came toward them, trundling along the open floor. He could sense the trooper at his side tightening up. They maintained their pace and direction. So did the droid. It was very close now, its optics easily able to resolve the fine details of prisoner and escort. What would they do if it started to ask questions?

Questioning a prisoner and guard not being a part of the tech droid’s protocol, it continued on past without beeping so much as a casual query.


	4. Chapter 4

THE INTERIOR OF the TIE fighter was spotless. Droids and techs had done their work well, leaving it ready for pilot and gunner. It was a true pilot who now settled himself into the cockpit command seat. As to the other missing crew member, that remained to be seen.

Slipping free of his bloody, confining jacket, Poe examined the controls laid out before him. Some were familiar from his professional studies of First Order ships, others from perusing details of Old Imperial craft. What he didn’t recognize immediately, he felt sure he could work around. A modern fighter like this one would be naturally forgiving, its computational components engineered to compensate for pilot miscues and oversights. He was relying on the likelihood that the ship itself would automatically correct for any minor mistakes in judgment.

Minor mistakes. He still had to fly the damn thing.

Movement behind him caused him to glance back over his shoulder. Having shed his helmet, the trooper who had freed him was settling himself into the gunner’s seat and struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Poe tried to project reassurance as he punched instrumentation. A whine began to rise from the ship’s stern.

“I always wanted to fly one of these things,” Poe said. “Can you shoot?”

“Anything designed for ground troops, I can. Blasters.”

Poe reflected that his companion sounded less than confident. “Same principle! Only the results are a lot more expansive. The toggle on the left should be to switch between cannons, missiles, and pulse. Use the instrumentation on the right to aim—let the autotargeting help you—and triggers to fire!”

Leaning slightly forward, the trooper tried to absorb what he was seeing as well as what the former prisoner was telling him. There were far more controls than those he was hearing about. Which were the ones he really needed to worry about?

“This is very complicated,” he confessed, “and I’m not sure where to start. Maybe if we waited a moment or two so you could clarify a few things?”

Freed from his shackles, then freed from captivity, Poe was not in a mood that allowed for a period of leisurely instruction. For one thing, he doubted he was going to have the opportunity. Any second now, someone was going to wonder why the Special Forces fighter was lighting its engines with the hatch closed.

“No time, buddy!” he yelled back. “Consider this on-the-job training!”

Working only semi-familiar controls, he persuaded the ship to lift. Unfortunately, it was still tethered to support lines. Cables twanged as they went taut, holding the TIE fighter to the deck.

Inside the main control room for Hangar Six, a confused tech turned from his console to the officer passing close behind him.

“Sir, we have an unsanctioned departure from Bay Two.”

The First Order colonel halted, turned, and stared out the sweeping port that overlooked the hangar floor. At the far end, a fighter could be seen struggling to decouple from its support cabling. Neither the apparent preflight movements nor the fact that cabling was still engaged made any sense. That they were occurring simultaneously suggested a serious miscarriage of duty—or the inconceivable.

“Get me communications with that vessel. Alert ship command, notify General Hux, and stop that fighter!”

Throughout the _Finalizer_ , confusion expanded exponentially. Departments were alerted that normally went unexercised while the ship was in orbit around peaceful planets. Off-duty personnel were roused to the sound of alarms ringing on their personal communicators. Contradictory commands flew back and forth between bemused sections. A large majority of those alerted responded slowly and reluctantly, confident that what they were responding to was nothing more than a drill.

No such illusions afflicted the hurriedly assembled troopers who were struggling to push the heavy weapons platform into position on the hangar deck. The musical _spang_ of cables snapping away from the TIE fighter pressed them to move even faster. The officer in charge was shouting, but no command could ready the weapon any quicker than its energizing program allowed. It would take another moment or two to fully power up.

Seeing the threat that was being prepared on the other side of the hangar, Poe proffered his companion some urgent advice. “Okay—now would be a good time to start shooting.”

Behind him, the defecting trooper’s gaze wandered desperately over the plethora of controls laid out before him. “I’ll do my best. I’m not sure I can…”

A massive wave of blasts from the TIE fighter’s primary arsenal filled the hangar. Internal weapons emplacements shattered. Troopers and mobile cannon were obliterated. Parked TIE fighters were reduced to rubble, fragments of fuselage and wings bouncing off the deck, ceiling, and walls. One collective burst demolished the hangar control room. Where moments before there had been calm, now there was bedlam, alarm, and fire.

The latter was extinguished when the fighter lifted, spun on its axis, and Poe activated the TIE fighter’s departure mode. It had been locked down by the hangar controllers, but when FN-2187 imploded the operations center, all electronics that were usually controlled from there had gone neutral. The Special Forces TIE fighter had no trouble resolving the problem, automatically issuing the necessary directives.

“Sorry, boys!” the trooper seated in the gunner’s chair yelled, even though there was no one save Poe to hear him. Accelerating, the Special Forces craft blasted clear of the Star Destroyer’s flank, leaving in its wake a splay of smashed TIE fighters, dead troopers, and an assortment of ruined accessory material.

Poe was becoming more and more comfortable with the vessel’s instrumentation. In a very short period of time, his mood had swung from fatalistic to exalting. Not only was he alive, not only was he free—he had a ship! And what a ship: a Special Forces TIE fighter. He was certain of one thing as he maneuvered around the immense destroyer: Nobody was going to make him a prisoner of the First Order ever again.

“This thing really moves.” He shook his head in admiration. Fine engineering knew no politics. “I’m not going to waste this chance: I owe some people in that ship a little payback. We’ll take out as many weapons systems as we can.”

The trooper had expected to run as far and as fast as the TIE fighter would take them. “Shouldn’t we go for lightspeed as soon as we can?”

A tight, humorless grin crossed Poe’s face. “Someone on that ship called me the best pilot in the Resistance. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. Don’t you worry. I’ll get us in position. Just stay sharp and follow my lead.” He paused only briefly. “How about this? Every time you see the destroyer, you shoot at it.”

Still unhappy with the direction their escape had taken, FN-2187 relaxed ever so slightly. “I can do that.”

It wasn’t a ship, Poe told himself as he gleefully manipulated the manual instrumentation. It was a part of him, an extension of his own body. As fire began to lance out toward them from the immense starship, he whirled and spun the TIE fighter, utilizing predictors as well as his own skills to avoid the blasts. Taking them underneath the mother ship, he danced back and through gaps and openings, executing maneuvers beyond the abilities of all but the best pilots. Several skirted the edge of believability. Poe didn’t care. He was free and he was flying.

Behind him, the renegade trooper unleashed blast after blast, triggering explosions in a frenzy of random damage that could only panic and confuse those on the vast vessel above them. A brace of cannons loomed ahead—but the trooper seemed content to fire indiscriminately at their surroundings. That needed to change, Poe knew, or they would never get the chance to jump to lightspeed.

“Dammit, a target is coming to you. My right, your left. You see it?”

Targeting controls brought the major weapons emplacement into bold view on one of the trooper’s screens. “Hold on. I see it.” He readied himself, then unleashed fire at the precise moment when aptitude interlocked with instrumentation.

The whole gun emplacement erupted in a rapidly shrinking fireball. Debris spun around them as Poe took them through the devastation, the fighter’s shields warding off whatever he could not directly avoid.

Unable to restrain himself, the trooper let out a yell that echoed around the cockpit. “YES! Did you see that?” Poe whipped the TIE fighter around to the side of the _Finalizer_. A proud smile was forming on his lips. “Told ya’ you could do it! What’s your name?”

“FN-2187.”

“FN-wha-?”

“That’s the only name they ever gave me.”

The longing in the trooper’s voice was all too human. That, and something more. Something that had driven him, among his hundreds, his thousands of colleagues, to step outside the comfort zone of training and regimentation, something that had ignited some exceptional spark of individualism within him. Something kept telling Poe that this boy’s spark was special, he knew that spark was still present in the man behind him, and he now made it his main task to see that it did not fade away. But where to start?

“If that’s the name they gave you, then I ain’t using it. ‘FN,’ huh? I’m calling you Finn. That all right with you?”

Behind him, the trooper considered. A bright smile spread slowly across his face. “Yeah, ‘Finn.’ I like that! But now you’re one up on me.”

“Sorry?”

“I don’t know your name. If you tell me it’s RS-736 or something like that, I’m going to be seriously confused.”

Delighted, the pilot had to laugh. “I’m Poe. Poe Dameron.”

“Good to meet you, Poe!”

“Good to meet you, Finn!” Settling on a line of attack, he prepared to dive once more into the heart of the Star Destroyer, a bug attacking a bantha.

But it was a bug with a very nasty bite.

* * *

On the main bridge of the _Finalizer_ , General Hux peered over the shoulder of Lieutenant Mitaka. While there could be no single central command station on a vessel as enormous as the Star Destroyer, Mitaka’s console approximated such a position as effectively as anything could.

Hux could hardly believe what he had been told. Not only had the prisoner escaped, he had managed to find his way to an operational hangar, slip aboard an outfitted and ready-to-fly fighter, and blast his way free. And not just any fighter, but a Special Forces TIE fighter. If the proof had not been right in front of him, making a treacherous nuisance of itself as the ship’s perceptors strove to keep track of the stolen fighter, Hux would not have believed such a thing possible.

A very slight shudder ran through the deck. Mitaka’s voice was even, but Hux could tell that the dark-haired lieutenant was shaken by what he was seeing. “They’ve taken out an entire bank of defensive weaponry. And they continue to attack. They’re not running.”

Hux didn’t understand. It was beyond comprehension. Prisoners _ran_ from prisons, they didn’t stick around to assault their jailers. The action smacked of an unshakeable wish to commit suicide. What he knew of the escaped prisoner strongly suggested a desire to live. What had happened to change him? Or, Hux thought, was the profile that had been drawn up by the psytechs simply wrong?

Formal profile or not, of one thing he was now certain: They had badly underestimated what had seemed to be a Resistance pilot on the verge of physical and emotional collapse.

“Engage the ventral cannons,” Hux ordered.

“Bringing them online,” Mitaka said.

No matter how close a flight path the escaped pilot took, Hux knew that sensors would prevent the guns from firing adjacent to the ship’s structure itself. Exceptional pilot that he was, the escaped prisoner would know that. Probably he was counting on it, which was why he continued to fly so close to the destroyer’s surface instead of bolting for empty space. Now Hux was counting on the pilot sustaining the same strategy. The longer he remained within the destroyer’s sphere of armed influence, the more forces could be brought against him, and the less chance he would have to make a second, more permanent escape.

A voice sounded behind him: unmistakable, controlled, and plainly displeased. “Is it the Resistance pilot?”

Hux turned to face Kylo Ren. Unable to see past the metallic mask, unable to perceive eyes or mouth, one had to rely on subtle changes in voice and tone to try to descry the tall man’s mood. Hux knew immediately that mood equaled if not exceeded his own consternation.

“Yes, and he had help.” Though Hux was loath to admit it, he had no choice.

“One of our own. We’re checking the registers now to identify which stormtrooper it was.”

While the all-concealing mask made it difficult to tell the focus of Ren’s attention, it was plainly not on the general. “FN-2187.”

It unnerved Hux that Kylo Ren had managed to ascertain the identity of the rogue trooper before the ship’s own command staff. But then, Ren had access to a great many aspects of knowledge from which ordinary mortals like himself were excluded, Hux knew. He would have inquired further, but the taller figure had already turned and headed off. Ren’s indifference was far more unsettling than would have been anything as common as a straightforward insult. Shaking off the encounter, Hux turned his attention back to the lieutenant’s console.

“Ventral cannons hot,” the lieutenant reported.

“Fire,” Hux commanded.

* * *

One detonation followed another as the Finalizer’s weapons systems struggled to isolate the darting TIE fighter from the debris among which it danced. Poe was constantly changing his flight path, never doing anything predictable, utilizing the destruction he and his companion had already wrought to confuse the predictors that were an integral part of the big guns’ operating systems. Though more debris provided more cover, Poe knew he couldn’t keep up such maneuvering forever. Ultimately, the damage he and Finn had caused would be reduced to fragments, and then to powder, by the efforts of the destroyer’s weapons. Bereft of anywhere to hide, the TIE fighter would eventually catch a powerful laser pulse. That would be the end of the game. Before that happened, they had to get clear.

No doubt every gunner, every weapons system operator on the destroyer, was just waiting for the stolen fighter to break outsystem preparatory to making a jump to lightspeed. Their attention would be focused in those directions, away from the ship and toward the great darkness. The last thing they would expect someone escaping from the vicinity of the planet Jakku to do would be to—head for Jakku.

As he sent the TIE fighter roaring toward the desert world below, a hand reached forward and down to rap him on the shoulder. “Wait—this isn’t right! Where are you going?” Behind them, a few desultory blasts erupted from the Star Destroyer’s weapons. It would take very little time for the great ship to bring all its power to bear on the fleeing fighter. But very little time was all a pilot like Poe needed.

“You mean, where are we going. Back to Jakku, that’s where.” As if, he thought, the brown and yellow globe expanding rapidly in front of them wasn’t indication enough. But he could sympathize with Finn’s confusion. What they were doing made no sense. Always, he knew, the best way to avoid predictability. Even if it was a little mad.

“What? Jakku? No, no, no! Poe, we gotta get outta this _system_!” The TIE fighter rocked crazily as one near-miss after another reached them from the destroyer and Poe fought to confuse any automatic trackers. Finn’s voice grew calmer, but only slightly. “Oh, okay, I got it. We’re gonna go sub-atmosphere, circle the planet, and strike for lightspeed on the other side, out of the big guy’s range, right? _Right?_ Tell me I’m right, Poe.”

Poe didn’t bother to shake his head, focusing on the fighter’s wonderfully responsive controls. “I got to get to my droid before the First Order does!”

Finn gaped at the back of the pilot’s head. “Your _droid_? What does a droid have to do with escaping?”

“It’s not about escaping. This whole business isn’t about escaping.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Feeling slightly numb, Finn slumped back in his seat. “You must really, really, _really_ like this droid.”

“He’s a BB unit. One of a kind. Orange and white. Utterly unique and utterly invaluable.”

Finn’s voice rose anew. “I don’t care _what color it is_! I don’t care if it’s capable of invisibility! No droid can be that important!”

Poe let out a private, knowing grunt. “This one is, pal.”

“Okay,” Finn countered, “you say that it’s important. I’ll tell you what’s important, _pal_. Getting as far away from the First Order and its representatives as we can, as fast as we can! _That’s_ what’s important. To me, anyway.” He lowered his voice. “I saved your life, Poe. At the very least, you owe me mine. We go back to Jakku, we _die_.”

“That’s a chance we’ve got to take.” The pilot’s stance was unshakeable. “This isn’t about my life, or yours. I’m sorry, Finn, but there are far greater things at stake. Forces are in motion that must be dealt with. Unfortunately, I seem to be at the center of them. It’s a responsibility I can’t—I won’t—forgo. I’m sorry you’ve become caught up in the middle of it, but I can’t do anything about that.”

“I don’t care how important this droid of yours is, or what you and it are involved in. For you and me, Jakku is another word for death.”

Poe could not dispute Finn’s logic, so he ignored it—he was starting to feel very guilty since everything had been flowing so flawlessly between both men just a minute ago. He tried to ignore the feeling… just as he had set aside reason when he had rushed into the village in a futile attempt to save the life of Lor San Tekka.

Of course, he reminded himself, that hadn’t turned out so well, either. But he was being nothing if not truthful. He had sworn an oath to the Resistance, and he had no intention of breaking it now. No matter how bad the odds. He took a deep breath. Although it meant breaking protocol, Finn deserved to know.

“My droid’s got a map that leads to Luke Skywalker.”

It took Finn a moment—a long moment—for the full impact of the pilot’s declaration to hit home. “You gotta be _kidding_ me, Poe! Skywalk— I _never_ should have rescued you!”

Those last words resonated inside the cabin like a slap across Poe’s face as he failed to form a response quickly enough.

Even as he opened his mouth to speak with a lump forming in his throat, a burst from the destroyer intercepted Poe’s latest evasive effort. Sparks flew within the cockpit, followed by an eruption of acrid smoke and fumes. The fighter’s engines flared wildly, sending it out of control. And since it was headed straight toward the surface of Jakku, that was where it continued to race—out of control.

Finn quit looking for something to shoot at because his instrumentation had gone completely dead. Coughing, fighting for breath, he yelled in the pilot’s direction. “All weapons systems are down! My controls are neutralized! You?”

There was no reply, save for the now continuous shrilling of the fighter’s alarms. Finn waved at the increasingly dense smoke as he strained forward toward his new friend—and drew back in horror.

Poe was not moving. His eyes were shut. Blood streamed down his face.

“NO—NOOOO! _POE!_ ”

No response came from the unconscious pilot. Eying him in the closed, smoky confines of the cockpit, his own eyes filling with tears in response to the increasingly bad air, Finn couldn’t even tell if the other man was still alive. The blackness of space was gone now, completely blotted out by the increasingly proximate surface of Jakku. Even if he could somehow take Poe’s place, Finn knew he could not safely set down an undamaged fighter, much less one in this condition.

He did, however, figure out the location of his seat’s eject control. Equipped with a manual override in the event of total electronics failure, it was clearly marked. Gripping the handle, he wrenched on it as hard as he could. Neither the extra muscle nor additional adrenaline was necessary. The handle moved smoothly and without resistance. A moment later, he felt his body being ripped away from the TIE fighter. The universe spun wildly around him, and for a brief moment his sight was filled with alternating visions of yellow planet, black space, and white clouds.

Then he passed out.

* * *

On the _Finalizer_ command deck, General Hux had moved away from Mitaka’s station. Wandering from console to console, he proceeded to question a succession of technicians and fire-control officers. The anxiety that had been building in him but which he had managed to keep restrained was greatly lightened when one tech looked up at him to report.

“They’ve been hit.”

Hux’s expression did not change, but inside he felt considerable relief. He studied the tech’s console, his gaze flicking rapidly from one readout to the next. The details coming in appeared conclusive, but in this matter there was no room for mere ninety-nine percent certainty; no room for analytical equivocation.

“Destroyed?”

The tech’s response as he studied his instruments confirmed the general’s circumspection. “Disabled only, it would appear.”

Hux leaned closer. “He could be trying to throw us off.”

“If so,” the tech reported, “he’s going to grave extremes. Sensors show pieces of the fighter are becoming detached and flying off. Such actions could not be carried out by the operator of the fighter itself and must be the result of the craft having suffered serious damage.” He paused a moment, added, “I hew to my original opinion, sir. No one would choose to voluntarily engage in a descent such as the one the fighter is currently taking.”

“Very well, then,” Hux conceded. “They are disabled, perhaps fatally so. Given that and what you can divine of their present vector, what is the projected location of touchdown?”

Once more the technician analyzed his readouts. “The fighter is projected to crash somewhere in the Goazon Badlands. At this range and given the nature of the topography in question, it is impossible to predict the exact angle and velocity with which it will strike.”

Hux nodded thoughtfully. “They were going back for the droid. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.

Otherwise they would have tried to hit lightspeed as soon as the pilot had had enough of teasing us.” He shrugged slightly. “It doesn’t matter now. Or at least it won’t once termination of this regrettable interruption is confirmed. Send a squad to the projected crash site and instruct them to scan not only the wreckage but the surrounding area. If they can’t find bodies, then have them vac the debris. I won’t accept that the pilot and the traitor are both dead until I have tangible biological proof.” His tone darkened only slightly, but it was enough to cause the tech to wish the senior officer would resume his wandering.

“Biological traces are acceptable,” Hux murmured, “but a couple of skulls would be better.”

* * *

It felt to Finn as if it took him longer to escape from the confines of the encapsulated, ejected gunner’s seat than it had to travel from plunging fighter to planetary surface. The clips and buckles, braces and foam that were intended to set him down in one piece now seemed designed to prevent him from ever emerging onto his own two feet. There was a sequence that had to be followed—first this control, then this button, then slide this to unlock—before the gear could be convinced to let him go. Or rather, he thought frantically, to let go of him.

Eventually he succeeded in freeing himself from the tangle of safety tackle. Staggering clear, he took in his surroundings. His spirits fell to the ground. He was alive, but if the environment in which he presently found himself was anything to go by, not for long.

The dusky dune field stretched in all directions, to every horizon. Somehow blue sky and sand now seemed more forbidding than the blackness of space. The warships that had largely been his home were sealed, environmentally controlled little worlds. Anything one needed was readily available, right at hand. Food, water, entertainment, sleeping facilities: All were no more than a few steps away. It was more than a little ironic that someone comfortable in the vastness of space should suddenly find himself suffering from a touch of agoraphobia.

Glancing skyward, he expected to see a landing craft or two dropping out of the clouds in hot pursuit. But his gaze was rewarded only by the sight of a pair of native avians soaring southward. They looked, he decided uncomfortably, too big to be herbivores. At least they were not circling the spot where he had landed—or him. Yet.

Something else manifested over the eastern dunes. Smoke. The wind had dropped off, allowing it to rise in a column instead of being blown sideways and dispersed. Otherwise he would have noticed it earlier, despite his distress. Someone was making a fire in this forsaken place, or…

He started toward it, struggling in the remnants of his armor. Logic insisted no one could have survived the fighter’s crash without ejecting beforehand, as he had done. But logic also insisted that it was impossible to escape from a First Order spacecraft, and they had done that. Not that it would matter if he was found here, wandering alive among the dunes.

Of one thing he was certain: His former colleagues would not understand, no matter how hard he tried to explain. No one fled the First Order and lived.

The sand sucked at his feet as he stumbled toward the rising smoke. “Poe! Say something if you can hear me! _Poe!_ ” He did not expect a response, but he hoped for one.

Flame had joined smoke in enveloping the wreck of the TIE fighter. Built more robustly than the typical ship of its class, the Special Forces craft had survived the crash landing, although hardly intact. Debris from the impact was scattered over a wide area. Careful not to cut himself on twisted shards of metal and still-hot composite, he pushed through the heat and haze until he reached the cockpit. It lay crushed and open to the desert air. Trying to shield his eyes against the smoke, Finn moved in closer. Something—there was something sticking out of the wreckage. An arm.

Ignoring the heat and the licking flames, Finn reached in until he could get a grip on it. First one hand, then both, then pull—and it came free in his hands. No arm, no body: just Poe’s jacket. Frustrated, he threw it aside and tried to enter the ruined cockpit. Increasing smoke and heat made it impossible for him to even see, much less work his way inside.

_“Poe!”_

He felt his legs start to go out from under him. But they hadn’t buckled; the ground had. Looking down, he saw sand beginning to slide beneath him. His feet were already half covered. He was sinking. In front of him, the ruins of the ship began to slide into the hollow in which it had come to rest. Sand was crawling up the wings and reaching for the open cockpit. If he didn’t get away from the quicksand, it was clear he was going to join the TIE fighter in premature internment. He began backpedaling frantically, yelling at the disappearing vessel.

_“POE!”_

Going. Down, down into the sand, to a depth that could not be imagined. Maybe just below the surface, he thought as he scrambled to find safe footing. Maybe much, much deeper.

The more the sand covered the fighter, the faster the vessel sank, until in a few moments it was completely gone. Joining it was most of the debris that the hard landing had thrown aside. There was nothing. Nothing to show that—

A violent explosion erupted almost beneath his feet, sending him staggering backward. For an instant, the substantial fireball that blew skyward flared an angry black and red before dissipating into the atmosphere. Regaining his footing, he stumbled forward. In place of the vanished TIE fighter there was some scattered debris and fused sand. Nothing more, and certainly no sign of another human being. Unlike the fighter, in the case of his companion there were no surviving fragments.

Drained of energy and overwhelmed, he started kicking at the sand, as if exposing a lower layer might reveal something, anything, familiar or encouraging. But each kick exposed only more sand. Looking around wildly, he saw only the silent dunes. It was as if nothing had ever touched this place; certainly not the hand of civilization.

He had escaped. He had survived. He had landed intact and apparently unharmed. And by the looks of things, he was just as dead as if none of it had ever happened. He inhaled deeply, then screamed at the empty planet, knowing as he did so that there was no one around to hear him.

_“I DON’T… KNOW WHAT… TO DO!”_


	5. Chapter 5

IT SEEMED IMPOSSIBLE that the day could grow any hotter. This being a day filled with one impossibility after another, however, Finn felt no surprise as the heat continued to intensify.

Squinting into the glare, he saw nothing in front of him but sand. Sand interrupted by the occasional salt flat followed by more sand. Nothing but sand off to his left, sand off to his right, sand behind…

A shape was coming toward him, sharp outlines resolving themselves out of a distant mirage. Nor was it silent. A rising, unsteady whine accompanied the rapidly expanding vision. A vehicle! Some kind of craft out here, in this blasted nothingness, and it was coming straight toward him! Staggering, he raised his arms and began yelling as loudly as his parched throat would permit.

“Hey! Here! Over here! _Hey!_ ” At this point he didn’t care who was in the vehicle, not even if it was occupied by followers of the First Order. Anything, anyone, as long as they could spare some water.

The speeder was large, battered, and packed with an assortment of scoundrels representing several different species— none of them noted for their compassion. Yelling down at him and making rude gestures, they rocketed on past without so much as slowing down, leaving in their wake only dry dust and derisive laughter.

“Thank you!” To the vocal sarcasm he added a mock bow. “Oh, yes, kind fellow travelers, thank you so very much! Thanks a lot!” He continued muttering under his breath, utilizing words and phrases from a half dozen worlds that would have seen him busted in rank had he employed them in the presence of an officer.

No need to concern himself with anything like that anymore, he knew. He was no longer a trooper in the service of the First Order. Should he ever again find himself among its adherents, the last thing he would have to worry about was censure for the use of bad language.

Where was he? This wandering among and between dunes was taking him nowhere. He needed a goal, a destination. His gaze rose. To find that, he needed to acquire a more thorough view of his surroundings.

There are physical tasks more daunting than climbing a steep sand dune, but few that are as frustrating. One step sliding backward for every two up, and that assuming the climber didn’t lose his footing and roll all the way back down to the bottom of the sand hill. Determined to make it to the top, Finn kept fighting, legs churning, until at last he stood on the crest of the small, sandy mountain. His first glimpse of his surroundings was as disheartening as he had feared: more sand, piled into slightly lower dunes. But in the distance off to his left, was that… could it be…

Yes! A settlement! What kind he did not know, but a settlement would have water and food and shelter from the sun. If he was exceptionally lucky, it might even be the destination of the cacophonous crowd that had callously passed him in the speeder. He wouldn’t mind meeting a few of those boastful travelers again—after he had refreshed himself and regained his strength, of course. He started carefully down the far side of the dune he had so painfully ascended. At least now he had a destination.

He was not yet willing to allow himself any hope.

* * *

The three-dimensional imagery was mundane: standard-issue trooper personal history and training records. Nonetheless, Hux reviewed it carefully. When analyzing a psychological profile in search of an anomaly, one looked for small clues. A bit of correspondence, a favored quote, even the posture of the individual in question: Any of these might suffice to point to an explanation for the trooper’s inexplicable behavior. He did not expect to find a picture of FN-2187 holding up a sign that read “I am going to go berserk and free a prisoner and steal a TIE fighter.” If there were any indications of mental imbalance or Resistance sympathies in the trooper’s records, Hux expected they would be subtle, not blatant.

But so far, there was nothing. Nothing to suggest that FN-2187 might one day go rogue. Nothing to indicate he was anything other than a representative of his kind, no different from his comrades. Nothing to distinguish him as a person, as a soldier, as an exception.

When he thought about it, Hux mused, the fact that FN-2187 came across as mind-numbingly ordinary was more unsettling than if his history had been full of semi-traitorous rants and near psychotic episodes. It suggested that the ranks might harbor others like him. They could not be permitted to know what he had done. Psytechs were already hard at work counseling those who had come into contact with him, whether through unremarkable everyday interaction or in the course of his violent flight. The whole incident had to be tamped down, obscured, and buried lest the germ of an infection spread through the ranks.

If there was one thing a competent fighting force did not need, Hux knew, it was unforeseen outbursts of individuality.

Light from the holos reflected off the chrome-clad figure standing beside him.

“Nothing noteworthy,” Phasma said. “FN-2187 was assigned to my division, received some additional specialty training, was evaluated, and sent to reconditioning.”

Hux shook his head slowly as he continued to scrutinize the records. If anything stood out in the history of stormtrooper FN-2187, it was his exceptional banality. “No prior signs of nonconformity. Not so much as talking back to a superior. He appears so ordinary as to be invisible.”

“This was his first offense.” Phasma betrayed nothing other than professional interest in the episode or in the man. “It is his only offense.”

Entering the room, Kylo Ren moved to join them. “Finding the flaw in your training methods won’t help recover the droid.” Although his mask concealed his facial expression, the rage simmering below his calm demeanor was almost palpable.

“And yet, there are larger concerns,” Hux insisted. It was evident from both Hux’s tone and body language that he held no love for the newcomer. The feeling was mutual; neither took pains to hide his contempt.

“Not for me.”

 _Typical Ren_ , Hux thought. _Self- centered, arrogant, indifferent to the interests of others._

“The Supreme Leader made it explicit that the Resistance not acquire the map to Skywalker. Capture the droid if we can. Destroy it if we must.”

Ren paused to consider the general’s words. “A simple enough task, or so it would seem. Find one droid. Just how capable are your soldiers, General?”

Hux turned away from the trooper’s holofile. He respected Ren and his abilities, but he was not afraid of him. One did not rise to the rank of general in the forces of the First Order by showing fear.

“I won’t have you questioning my methods.”

“What methods would those be, General? Those that allow a single common trooper to free an important prisoner from confinement, escort him to an operating hangar, and assist him in fighting his way to freedom? What methods teach such expertise? Obviously, at least some of your troops are skilled at high treason. Perhaps Leader Snoke should consider using an army of clones.”

It was with great difficulty that Hux restrained himself. “My men receive exceptional instruction. They are programmed from birth to be loyal to one another, to their officers, and to the Order. The appearance of a single abnormality does not give you the right to question methods that have been refined through long—”

Ren interrupted the general’s impassioned defense. “Keeping the map out of the hands of the Resistance shouldn’t be a problem, then. Yes?”

“Again, this map. Which for all I know may or may not even exist.”

Ren’s voice darkened to a degree that caused Phasma to take a step backward. “I do not think I care for your implication, General. You would be wise to keep such thoughts to yourself. You would be wise not to think them.”

Hux held his ground. “My duty is to fight for the First Order with every iota of information, every scrap of material, and every functioning trooper at my command. That was in the oath I took. That is the oath I have sworn to uphold.” His gaze did not flinch from the mask. “There was nothing in it about accommodating the ancillary interests of individuals, no matter how high their rank or how exalted their perceived importance. Careful, Ren, that your _personal interests_ do not interfere with direct orders from Leader Snoke.”

If Kylo Ren was affronted by the general’s boldness, he did not show it. As if nothing untoward had passed between them, he continued. “Have you and your techs reviewed the close-in scans of the area where the stolen TIE fighter was forced down? That region is home to only one settlement of consequence: Niima Outpost. If the droid is still functioning, it would instinctively try to hide there.”

Glad of the opportunity to change the subject as well as to report something positive, Hux replied in a more amenable tone of voice. “I concur. Furthermore, we found the traitor’s armor. It was strung out along a single trail in the desert, where it had been abandoned. While the viewable footprints were interspersed among the dunes, they form a consistent pattern heading toward Niima.” He smiled thinly at Ren. “A strike team is already en route.”

“Good. I am pleased to see that you are personally in charge of this, General. Of retrieving the droid—preferably unharmed.”

Before Hux could object again, Ren turned and departed back the way he had come. If he felt the hate flowing in his direction from the senior officer behind him, he chose not to respond to it.

* * *

Jakku’s sun had burnt him, dehydrated him, and tormented him—but it had not beaten him. Not yet. What was a little sunburn, Finn told himself, to someone who had defied the First Order, freed its prisoner, and wreaked havoc on a Star Destroyer? That was what his brain said.

His body begged to differ, shouting its displeasure at its recent treatment and threatening to collapse at any moment as he finally stumbled into Niima Outpost. Old ship parts towered around him; relics of better times, heralds of space travel past. Merchants and traders eyed him speculatively. Finn carried nothing of value save his organs, and judging by his exterior, his insides were not likely to be in very valuable condition, either. Some scavengers pointed and joked. Others, having suffered similarly from blowing sand and grit and sun, expressed murmured sympathy. That was all the help the stranger was offered. Niima Outpost did not coddle the weak.

Something flat, fat, and ugly was drinking from an open water trough. Gaping at it, Finn could not imagine what such a creature could possibly offer that would induce someone to provide it with drink. It looked neither friendly nor edible. He didn’t care. It was the water he was interested in, and it was to the water he ran.

Cupped hands dipped, drew the dingy liquid to his mouth, and held it there for him to sip. It felt wonderful against his lips. It tasted awful going down his throat. He spat, revolted. It was the turn of his body, however, to override his brain. Fighting down the urge to gag, he drank. The unsightly lump of four-legged flesh, which he would later learn was called a happabore, eyed him owlishly but otherwise ignored him. For all Finn knew or cared, the squat quadruped found him equally disgusting.

* * *

As Rey knelt beside BB-8, the excitable droid beeped madly.

“Easy, easy—you’re going to drain your cells!” She patted the curving metal flank beside her. “You’re welcome for not selling you.” She saw no reason to add that she had come very, very near to doing exactly that. “Okay, stop thanking me. Now as to this other matter: You’re going to have to calm down and speak slowly.” More frantic beeping caused her to reply irritably. “That’s not sufficient information, Beebee-Ate. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me who you’re waiting for.”

The droid paused. Thinking? she wondered. Or as she had warned it, running low on power? When it finally did speak again, her exasperation was palpable.

“Can you _trust_ me? What do you think?” She started to rise, frustrated and not a little angry. “Tell me or don’t tell me. I don’t have time for games.”

The droid moved closer, bumping her gently. She made a brief show of ignoring its entreaties before bending once more. “Yes, yes, I understand. You’re waiting for your master. Who? Say again?” The droid repeated the name. “Poe.” She shrugged diffidently. “The name means nothing to me. Should it?”

Unable to properly voice his own frustration, BB-8 settled for spinning several times on his axis. When he stopped, he began to explain. Despite her studied indifference, Rey found herself listening closely to the steady stream of carefully composed beeps and squeals.

“Yes, I know what the Rebellion was, and yes, I’ve heard of the Resistance.” Her expression grew more serious as the droid continued. “The First Order. They’re horrible. Rumor has it an attack squadron of theirs destroyed a sacred village right close to here, over near Kelvin Ravine.” BB-8’s next series of beeps caused the mask of indifference to fall from her face. She stared at the spherical droid in disbelief.

“You were _there_?”

She would have queried the droid further if not for the interruption. She recognized the approaching pair as two of Plutt’s thugs. Halting, they towered over her: twin masses of mobile meat swathed in cheap desert clothing, even their faces completely covered. Plutt wouldn’t send such as these to deliver a polite message. With a glance at BB-8, the nearest was quick to confirm her suspicions.

“Plutt wants droid. We take droid. Female don’t interfere.”

“The droid is mine,” she shot back. “I didn’t sell him. Plutt knows that.”

“You right,” agreed the other thug. “Plutt knows that. You didn’t sell. So he take.” His companion was already pulling a sack over BB-8. When Rey moved to stop him, the other speaker grabbed her arm.

* * *

Finn didn’t know if the happabore was tired of sharing his space with the biped or was simply being friendly when it pushed him over. So indistinct was the gesture that Finn couldn’t tell if it was a deliberate butt or just an amiable nuzzle. Whatever the creature’s motivation, it knocked him right off his feet.

This new perspective gave him an excellent view of the confrontation that had started up in the nearby marketplace. He frowned. The young woman who was being accosted by two far larger individuals was fighting back. Rising, he impulsively moved to help her. However, the nearer he drew, the less concern he felt.

Despite the difference in size between the girl and her assailants, it was looking as if she was not in need of any outside assistance.

A twist and flip, and suddenly the brute who had been holding her arm found himself on the ground. When his companion rushed to assist his downed associate, he found himself on the wrong end of a ferocious assortment of kicks, punches, and blows delivered by the staff the girl was wielding. In short order, both ruffians found themselves prone and unconscious.

Impressed but still wanting to lend a hand, Finn took it upon himself to pull the half-closed sack off the property that was the apparent source of the dispute. What he saw was nothing like what he expected. From a distance he had been unable to tell, but this close there was no mistaking the identity of the spherical mechanical.

_Poe’s droid._

As the girl spoke to it reassuringly, it shook itself, turned its head, and saw Finn. Whereupon it twitched to one side and began beeping like someone had pulled its rationality chip. This cybernetic disputation did not unsettle Finn half as much as the expression that came over the girl’s face. She ought to have been pleased by his attempt to offer assistance. Instead, he sensed as well as saw nothing but rising hostility.

“Hey, what’s wrong? I just came over to help. Not that you needed my help.” He indicated the pair of insensible thugs. “That doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t have…”

Wordlessly raising the staff she carried, she came at him.

He dodged, barely, and began to run, trying to find a path through the marketplace, wondering what he had done to set her off, and more than a little bewildered at the turn of events. All he had done was move to render aid. Then the droid had seen him, had said something to upset her, and now he was running. Again.

As he bumped into displays and knocked over goods, he drew the ire of one merchant after another. His flight finally came to an end when, after turning several corners and thinking himself in the clear, he ran into the end of that staff. It collapsed him to the ground. Not that it took much of a blow to bring him down. He was completely drained from his trek through the desert.

Lying on his back, out of breath, and not much caring if he passed out, he looked up at her. She held the staff over him, ready to strike again if necessary.

“What’s your hurry, _thief?_ ”

Blissful unconsciousness would have to wait, so shocked was he by the unexpected accusation. _“What…?”_ Before he could elaborate, BB-8 rolled up fast alongside him, extended a telescoping arm, and transmitted a sizable electric shock. It was powerful enough to sit Finn bolt upright.

“ _Ow!_ Hey, what…don’t do that, woman!” He looked up at the girl.

“Stay down or I’ll have to hit you again. The jacket!” She prodded him with the business end of her staff. “This droid says you stole it!”

Badly in need of food and clean water, Finn was forced to settle for taking a deep breath. “Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. I’ve already had a pretty messed-up day. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t accuse me of being a th— _Ow!_ ” He glared at the droid, who had zapped him a second time. “ _Stop it!_ ”

“Okay then.” Rey was both unimpressed and unwilling to give the traveler the benefit of the doubt. “Prove it. If you didn’t steal it, how’d you get it?” She gestured at BB-8. “It belongs to his master.”

It took Finn a long moment to process what he was hearing. As he did so, he found it meshed perfectly with what he was seeing. The girl, the agitated droid, the jacket he was wearing… They deserved an explanation. He considered embroidering the news, or somehow softening it. In the end he made a hard decision: to tell the truth. He stared evenly at the distressed droid, then up at the unyielding girl.

“His master’s dead.”

By their reaction, it was plain that neither the droid nor girl had expected quite so blunt a response. Nor one so definitive. When Rey lowered the tip of her staff, Finn continued.

“His name was Poe Dameron.” He focused his attention on BB-8. “Right?” Not a single argumentative beep came from the now-silent droid. “He was captured by the First Order. I helped him escape.” Finn spoke dispassionately, evenly. “Broke him out of his holding cell. Together we stole a TIE fighter.”

He gestured at BB-8. “We couldn’t flee outsystem, he said, because he insisted he had to find you.” A soft, almost mournful beep issued from the droid. “We got shot down, crashed. I ejected safely. I know Poe didn’t, because I found his jacket still inside the fighter. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t get to him. This rotten sand sucked the ship right down. Would’ve taken me with it if I hadn’t scrambled clear. I tried to help him. I’m sorry…”

The only difference in depression between an organic and a droid is the lack of flexible expression on the part of the latter. Saddened, moving slowly, BB-8 rolled off to one side. Rey watched the little droid go, then turned her attention back to Finn. Her hostility had given way to subdued admiration.

“You escaped a First Order ship _and_ stole a TIE fighter?”

Finn nodded vigorously. “A Special Forces fighter. Poe was a pilot. I handled the gunnery.”

She studied him more intently. “So— you’re with the Resistance?”

Taking into account the way she gripped that lethal staff and how her dark brown eyes were burning into him, it was easy enough to know how to reply: This time he lied.

“Obviously,” he told her, drawing himself up. “I’m with the Resistance, yes. I am. I’m with the Resistance. Who else would have helped a Resistance pilot escape the First Order except another member of the Resistance? I’m surprised you have to ask.”

She relaxed, leaning lightly on the staff. “Most visitors to this part of Jakku are traders and troublemakers. I’ve never met a Resistance fighter before.”

It was difficult to strut in place, but Finn managed it. “Well, this is what we look like. Some of us. Others look different. Now that you have met one, what’s your opinion?”

Rey pursed her lips. “You may be great behind the guns of a TIE fighter, but your hand-to-hand skills need a lot of work.”

He slumped slightly. “I’m out of practice.”

Though she thought that strange, she let it pass and gestured in the direction of the mourning droid. “Beebee-Ate says he’s on a secret mission.” The droid promptly pivoted on its axis and beeped at her. “Says he needs to get back to the nearest Resistance base.”

That much, at least, Finn could understand. “Yeah. Apparently he’s carrying a map that leads to Luke Skywalker, and everyone’s insane to get their hands on it.”

A frown crossed her face as she pondered this explanation. She eyed him dubiously.

“Luke Skywalker? I thought he was just a myth.”


	6. Chapter 6

FINN GAPED AT the girl. Was she serious? It was true that Jakku was a backwater world, but still…

“Really?” was all he could think of to say. He might have added more if not for the sudden interruption from a stream of excited beeps.

Rey turned to the droid. “What is it?” She looked up, past the now concerned Finn. “Over there?”

Trailing her gaze, he was able to make out in the distance the hulking forms of the two thugs who had attacked the girl and tried to steal the droid. They were not alone. The sun gleamed off the bright white armor of two stormtroopers. One of the banged-up hooligans was pointing in Finn’s direction.

Grabbing Rey’s hand, he started backward into the maze of tents and temporary structures that formed the marketplace.

“Hey!” she protested, but allowed herself to be pulled along. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Beebee-Ate, come on!” Finn yelled. Unlike Rey, the droid needed no urging.

A moment later a pair of blaster explosions obliterated the spot where they had been standing. A third struck a cleaning unit, which immediately began spewing smoke and corrosive fumes. Still holding tight to Rey’s hand, Finn darted in and out among the flimsy structures, dodging outraged owners and piles of goods alike. By now Rey was struggling with his grip.

“Let go of me!”

“We gotta move! I know how they…” Mindful of what he had told her, he backed up and began anew. “I mean, as a Resistance fighter, I’m familiar with stormtrooper procedure. We in the Resistance have to be knowledgeable about such things.” As he ran, he nodded back the way they had come. “Those two would rather identify us from smoking bits and pieces. Saves the trouble of having to ask questions.”

“I’m not disputing that!” She finally managed to free her fingers from his. “I know how to run without you holding my hand!” Skidding to a stop, she gestured sharply to her left. “No! _This way_.”

Another blast from behind just missed them. By now a general panic had seized the denizens of the marketplace. Those who weren’t scattering in every direction were doing their best to shield their stock. Their efforts slowed but did not halt the pursuing stormtroopers.

Rey and her companions hunkered down inside a larger tent crammed with machine parts, crates of salvage, and other mechanical detritus. Peeping cautiously through a gap in the scrap pile behind which they’d taken cover, she muttered urgently at Finn.

“They’re shooting at both of us! Why are they shooting at _me_? I haven’t done anything!”

Finn knew exactly why they were shooting at her, and he felt terrible about it. But there was nothing he could do. Not now.

“They saw you with me. You’re marked.”

Her lips tightened. “Thanks for that. Marked as what?”

He didn’t respond directly. “I’m not the one chasing me around with a stick!” While staying hidden, he tried to scan their surroundings, searching desperately for something useful. “Anyone sell blasters around here?” A trained stormtrooper, he felt naked without a gun. Though he had been on the receiving end of the girl’s staff, as far as he was concerned, it qualified as a local curiosity and not a proper weapon.

Behind them, BB-8 was quivering slightly. Both antennae were fully extended and inclined slightly eastward. Rey frowned at the droid. “Are you okay?”

While Finn’s sensory equipment was less sensitive than the droid’s, it was no less sophisticated. Man and machine were both listening to something that escaped the girl. Puzzled, she shifted her attention from one to the other.

“What is it? What’s going on? I don’t hear anyth—”

Finn shushed her with a gesture, listening intently. She started to object, thought better of it and went quiet. Behind him, BB-8 was growing increasingly agitated. Without a word, the droid spun and raced toward the rear of the storage area. Finn responded almost as quickly, grabbing Rey’s hand and pulling her after him. As before, when she tried to pull away, he maintained his grip.

“Hey! Not again! _Stop taking my hand!_ ”

The explosion ripped up the storage area, its contents, and the ground just behind the fleeing trio as one of the two diving TIE fighters BB-8 and Finn had heard coming in unleashed its weaponry in a low pass over the town. The concussion threw Rey hard to the ground. She came up fearful and spitting out grit. The desert was full of dangers, and scavenging had its own risks, but she was used to those. An occasional encounter with thieves was an occupational hazard. So was dealing on a recurring basis with the hostile and hungry creatures of the wastelands. The realization that First Order TIE fighters might be sent to locate and eradicate a single Resistance fighter suggested that she was well and truly out of her depth. This Finn must be more important than he seemed, she decided.

Where was Finn, anyway?

She found him nearby, unconscious. Getting a grip on his jacket, she rolled him over. The spherical white and orange droid joined her a moment later.

Should she shake him? Use her emergency bio-injector? She was no physician: Her medical training was restricted to what she had learned during a life of having to take care of herself. The wrong application, she knew, could leave him worse off than he was now.

She was saved from having to make a decision as he came to, blinking at his surroundings before his attention settled on her. Swallowing, he managed to gasp out, “Are you okay?”

It struck her that in her entire short life, this was the first time anyone had asked that question. “Yeah,” she murmured. Her attention flicked between the fallen figure beside her and the blue sky that had turned abruptly deadly. “I’m okay. You?”

He peered down at himself as he sat up. Everything of consequence appeared to be intact and in place. “Think so. Too close.”

She stood and extended a hand. He glanced at it, his dark gaze rising to her face, then gratefully accepted her offer of assistance.

“Follow me,” Rey said. She turned and broke into a run, the grateful Finn allowing himself to be guided.

Around them, Niima Outpost was in complete disarray. Explosions had torn tents and other buildings apart, scattering merchants, traders, scavengers, maintenance workers, and every other innocent bystander in a panicky search for cover. Staff strapped to her back now, Rey led her companions onto the sand-scoured clearing that served as the town’s port. Looking back, Finn saw the pair of TIE fighters bank and turn. He had no doubt what they were looking for.

“Isn’t there any shelter around here?”

As she continued to lead him on, Rey shook her head and yelled, “Nothing strong enough to withstand TIE fighter weapons!”

“We can’t outrun them!” _That’s right_ , he told himself. _Boost her confidence in you by stating the obvious_.

She pointed to the four-engined craft toward which they were running. “We might in that quadjumper!”

Finn shook his head. “I’m a gunner. We need a pilot!” “We got one!”

He gaped at her. “You?” While her youth and probable lack of experience troubled him, he knew he was in no position to argue. Anyway, what was the worst that could happen? That they would crash on takeoff instead of being pulverized by the pursuing ships of the First Order?

They were still dangerously far from the quadjumper and terribly exposed on the bare landing area. Another craft loomed off to their right, nearby.

“How about _that_ ship, it’s closer! If nothing else, we can get out of sight!”

Rey scarcely glanced in the other vessel’s direction. “That one’s garbage! We need something that’ll _move_ , not just get off the ground—if we’re lucky!”

They ducked simultaneously as the two TIE fighters roared past overhead. But instead of firing at the tiny figures, their gunners directed bursts of energy at the fugitives’ destination. The quadjumper came apart in a ball of flame, flinging bits and pieces of itself in all directions as the detonation scorched the landing area. Throwing up their hands, Finn and Rey shielded their faces from the heat and flying debris. When they lowered them, nothing was left to be seen of the quadjumper but a smoking pile of rubble. Rey’s reaction was immediate and realistic.

“Okay—the garbage it is!”

Changing direction, they raced for the other craft. Though it was partially covered by several protective sand tarps, the loading ramp was down. Finn paused only briefly to glance at the ident plate sealed flush inside the airlock wall.

“ _Mi con_ ,” he read aloud. “What the hell does that mean?”

Ahead of him, Rey yelled without looking back. “Some con man’s private craft, probably. That might be a good thing. It might be built to travel faster than a crippled skimmer!”

“If we’re lucky,” Finn muttered, echoing her early observation as he and BB-8 followed.

Rey hit a wall panel even before her companions were safely aboard. To her great relief, it responded. The ramp behind them rose and the lock sealed. The vessel’s layout was straightforward and they found the cockpit immediately. Tossing her staff to one side and throwing herself into the pilot’s seat even as she was scrutinizing the instrumentation, Rey activated several controls. Much to her surprise, the console in front of her immediately came to life. She tapped a visualization.

“Gunner’s position is down below!”

Turning, Finn headed for the indicated area. “You ever fly this thing? Or anything like it?”

As BB-8 looked on, she shouted back to him, “I’ve piloted all kinds of craft, but nobody’s flown this old crate in years!”

“Then what makes you think it’ll get off the ground?” he called.

Her reply was grim. “If you prefer, we can leave and try running across open tarmac while being shot at!”

Having no comeback for that, Finn slipped down and buckled himself into the gunner’s seat. To his shock, it responded to his weight by whipping to the left. Hastily he grabbed hold of the controls.

“Whoa, easy!” Manipulating the intuitive controls allowed him to quickly take full control of the turret’s movements. “I can do this, I can do this.” If anything, he saw quickly, the track and fire controls were simpler and more primitive than those he had handled in the Special Forces TIE fighter.

Rey rapidly ran through a standard pre-lift sequence, activated the full panoply of relevant instrumentation, and sat back. A low whine rose from the rear of the craft. She reached for the control that would, she hoped, bring all her hurried preparations to fruition. One of three things would occur when she thumbed it, she knew: They would lift off, the ship would blow up, or nothing at all would happen. Not good odds, but the only ones they had. She took a deep breath and punched the control. “I can do this, I can do this—”

At the stern of the old ship, long quiescent engines flared to brilliant life. Fully powered up now, it soared into the bright blue sky of Jakku—but not efficiently. Shedding tarps as it rose, it spun and careened wildly, nearly crashing back to the ground. Wrestling with the unfamiliar controls, Rey managed to level off just in time to crash into and through the town’s entry archway: Niima Outpost’s sole example of architectural pride.

Below, the puffy-faced figure of Unkar Plutt emerged from a collapsed structure to scream at the sky. “ _Hey! That’s miiiiine!_ ”

Finding the oddly named craft surprisingly responsive to manual control, an increasingly optimistic Rey spun it around and accelerated, blasting away from the port. The pair of TIE fighters that had been shooting up the town immediately gave chase.

Rey headed skyward, relieved to feel the ship’s increasing power as they soared away from the surface. Trying to interpret the weapons systems, Finn yelled to her, hoping either his straining voice or the turret’s audio pickup would permit at least a modicum of inflight communication.

“Stay low! It’s our only chance! If we go extra-atmospheric, they’ll outmaneuver us and run us down before we can make lightspeed—assuming this thing can still do lightspeed. And put up the shields—if they work!”

“Shield controls are on the other side of the console,” she shot back. “Not so easy without a copilot!”

Below, Finn continued to struggle with the highly responsive, wildly swinging turret. “Try sitting in _this_ thing!”

Realizing it was impossible to reach the necessary instrumentation while seated in full pilot’s position, Rey momentarily let go of the controls. She’d have to do this manually, she knew. Put any ship on autopilot and the vectoring would immediately be sensed by a pursuer, who could then lock on and blow you out of the sky. In contrast, there was just enough wild wobble in their flight path as she leaned to her right to confuse any electronic predictors. Her stretching, however, caused the ship to cant sharply as she tried to activate the shield instrumentation on the copilot’s side while maintaining some semblance of flight control.

“Beebee-Ate, hold on!”

Her warning came too late for the droid. Beeping madly, he rolled ceilingward as the ship spun.

Fingers straining, she just managed to reach the shield controls and flick them to life, in the process having to brush away several clumps of excessively long, rough yellow-brown hairs that had become caught in the console. Relieved, she straightened in the pilot’s seat and resumed full command, stabilizing the vessel.

“I’m going low!” she shouted, mindful of Finn’s advice.

Driving the ship surfaceward, she pulled up at the last possible moment and sent them screaming across the ground, clipping the crests of at least two dunes. Trying to match the maneuver while pursuing at high speed, both TIE fighters shot past, unable to slow in time. They did, however, each manage to get off successive bursts from their weaponry. Had the vessel’s shields not been up, the twin blasts might well have brought them down. Just like its engines, the stolen vessel’s shields proved unexpectedly robust.

 _Tougher than it looks_ , she thought as she strove to accelerate and dodge. The original owner had plainly had some serious, and probably illegal, modifications made to his vessel that on numerous worlds were worthy of fines and possible imprisonment. She resolved to thank that individual profusely if she ever had the occasion to make that acquaintance. Provided she survived the next hour.

A blast rocked them, and she barely managed to hang on tightly enough to avoid a looming sandstone monolith. Swallowing, she yelled as loud as she could.

“Could use some offense down there, you know? Maybe before our body parts are scattered all over the desert? Y’ever gonna fire back? Hold on, Beebee-Ate, hold on!”

Within the cylindrical corridor, the droid was beeping madly as he rolled up the walls, across the ceiling, and everywhere except where he wanted to be. Capable of comprehending the causes of nausea, the droid was fortunate it was not a condition his kind were subject to, but his internal gyros were being forced to work overtime.

“Working on it!” Finn called back to her. A moment later the weapons systems finally came to life beneath his hands. Spinning the turret, he began firing back at their pursuit. The primitive targeting system was clumsier than anything he had trained on or studied, and his blasts missed.

Another detonation rocked the ship. If not for their shields, he knew, they would have been debris by now. His mouth tight, he continued firing. The pursuing fighters came on, almost disdainful of their quarry’s defensive efforts.

“We need cover!” he yelled even as he kept firing. “Quick!”

“We’re about to get some!”

While she knew little more than theory when it came to maneuvering and fighting in free space, Rey had plenty of experience defending herself on the desiccated surface of Jakku. At least in the vicinity of Niima Outpost, she was familiar with every dune field, every canyon complex, every crater and escarpment. Keeping as close to the ground as possible, she rose and darted over rocks and dunes, grazing one upthrust ridge so closely that she took a chunk out of it. Unwilling to sacrifice distance to gain altitude in order to attack from above, the two TIE fighters stayed close.

 _Just a little farther_ , she told herself as she clung grimly to the controls. _Just keep them off a little longer_. She was heading for her favorite scavenging spot: the ships’ graveyard. Let them try to follow her in there! She banked hard, low enough to cut a crease in the sand.

Half wild, a burst from the craft’s guns crossed the flight path of one of the tailing TIE fighters and happened to catch it where its shields were momentarily unpowered. Part of the craft crumpled instantly, causing it to trail wreckage as its pilot strove to keep it aloft.

“ _Whooooo!_ ” Finn allowed himself a triumphant shout without letting go of the firing controls. To himself he added, more softly, “ _Damn_ , that was lucky.”

“Nice shot!” Rey’s praise reached him from above. He accepted it silently, without wasting time explaining that his success was due as much to her wrenching the ship around unpredictably as to any innate targeting ability on his part.

As she sent them snaking into the enormous field of derelict spacecraft and other industrial waste, the damaged TIE fighter slammed into one of the metal mountains and came apart. Out of nowhere, a brace of scavengers appeared to begin claiming portions of the remains. No one bothered to check the cockpit of the downed craft to see if the pilot might somehow have survived the crash.

Trailed by the surviving fighter, the ship slalomed through the colossal debris field. Sparks flew as she grazed towering metal walls and fallen station sections, but the hull of the borrowed craft held together. As he was banged around in the gunner’s seat, Finn tried to keep track of their remaining pursuer while peering out at a trash-paved surface that frequently came entirely too near to where he happened to be sitting.

Likewise, the next blast that erupted in his vicinity also came too close. The concussion set the turret spinning. When it finally stabilized, its rattled occupant was horrified to find that it had been jammed facing forward. He could not rotate it in any direction. At the same time, alarms began to sound throughout the ship, indicating that more than just the gunner’s position had sustained damage.

“Guns are stuck in forward position!” he yelled upward. “I can’t move ’em! You gotta lose our pursuit!”

Yet another blast rocked their craft. Much more of this, Rey knew, and modifications aside, one of the TIE fighter’s bursts was going to overwhelm their shields. The vessel they had commandeered was a small freighter, not a warship.

Ahead lay the bulk of a downed Super Star Destroyer, its mass inconceivably large where it rested on the sand. Pulling on the controls, she drove the ship downward—and into the gaping breach that was the center of a ruined engine thruster. If she hoped this maneuver might dissuade their remaining pursuer, she was wrong. Unwilling to give ground, the pilot of the surviving TIE fighter took his craft in after her.

As he sat gawking out the turret’s transparent canopy, a disbelieving Finn gauged the proximity of the metal walls that were racing past on either side of them.

_“Are we really doing this?”_

Sparks continued to flare from their ship’s sides as Rey negotiated one increasingly narrow passage after another. Even a former crewmember would not have been as familiar with the corridors she chose. But she had not merely familiarized herself with them from a diagram: She knew them intimately, having inspected them individually and on foot or with climbing gear.

“Get ready!” she yelled to him.

Finn nodded energetically. “Okay, okay! I’m ready!” Then he frowned. “Ready for what?”

 _Have to time this just right_ , Rey told herself as she prepared. And if Finn wasn’t ready, the maneuver she was about to try wouldn’t matter. They would be shot down as surely as Unkar Plutt underpaid his scavengers. Finn was relying on her skills; now she had to rely on his.

Uninterrupted light appeared at the far end of the service corridor down which she was flying. Another blast from the unrelenting TIE fighter pilot nearly sent their craft crashing into the corridor’s ceiling, and she only managed to correct at the last instant. There was no time to check readouts to see if any critical part of the stolen ship had been damaged. All that mattered was that they were still airborne and the controls continued to respond to her touch.

Then they were out, flying in bright sunlight. The instant the ship emerged from the decaying guts of the old Super Star Destroyer, she cut the power just so and swung the ship completely around.

Fortunately, as a trained stormtrooper, Finn was used to wild swings of his personal cosmos. So where such a tight aerial twist and turn might cause another, less experienced passenger to lose the contents of his or her stomach, Finn retained not only those but his wits, as well.

Now heading directly back _toward_ the immense relic, he once more found the surviving TIE fighter directly in his sights, and he reacted accordingly. Whether it was their vessel’s sudden and unexpected reappearance just outside his own targeting instrumentation or the shock of what seemed to be a suicide plunge, the fighter pilot’s fire missed.

Finn’s did not.

Rey turned the ship hard away from the hulk of the Super Star Destroyer as the remaining TIE fighter burst into flames, lost speed and altitude, and crashed to the surface in their wake.

Working the controls, a jubilant Rey sent the ship accelerating into the clouds. Those, and the sun-blasted surface of Jakku, soon fell astern, giving way to the cold yet comforting blackness of space.

Feeling confident that she could now entrust temporary control of the ship to its autopilot without fear of being tracked, she slipping out of her harness and hurried out of the cockpit. In doing so she passed BB-8, who after the acrobatic aerial contortions of the past few minutes was only now able to steady himself.

“You okay?” she inquired in passing. Several short, curt beeps avowed that he was, while also communicating that the experience they had just gone through had been less than pleasurable.

She found Finn in the lounge, trying to regulate his breathing while coming down from an adrenaline high. Turning to her as she slowed, he gave her a wide, disarming grin.

“That was _some_ piloting!”

“Thanks.” She shrugged. “I’ve been flying every kind of junk you can imagine almost since I could walk.” It was her turn to smile. “Speaking of which, that was some shooting! I was worried you wouldn’t have time to react.”

“You could have told me what you had in mind. Might’ve saved me a heart palpitation or two.”

She shook her head. “No time. I had to pull the turn almost as soon as I thought of it. I just had to rely on your ability to react to the maneuver.”

He nodded. “Good thing my hands were frozen to the track and fire controls. When all of a sudden he showed up in my sights, all I had to do was twitch my fingers.”

“You got him on the first blast!”

His smile gave way to a touch of self- satisfaction. “It was a pretty good shot, wasn’t it?”

“It was perfect!” Rey told him. It was silent in the lounge for a long moment before he murmured, “Why are we…”

“Staring at each other? I don’t know…”

The need for possibly uncomfortable answers was obviated by a series of insistent beeps from BB-8, who had rolled in to join them. Rey knelt beside the agitated droid.

“Hey, calm down! You’re okay, we’re all okay. For the moment, at least.” She indicated Finn. “Everything’s going to work out fine. He’s with the Resistance and he’s going to get you home. We both will.” She slid a hand along the droid’s curving flank. “I’m not going to abandon you now. Not after turning down the kind of payment Plutt was offering.” More beeps, to which she responded, “I’m just kidding. The amount wasn’t what mattered. I just got a huge charge out of being able to deny that bloated bastard something he wanted so badly.”

Having calmed the droid, she returned her attention to the room’s other occupant. “I don’t know your name.”

Startled, he realized that on that score he was equally ignorant. “FN-2—Finn. Name’s Finn. What’s yours?”

“My name is Rey.” This time when she smiled, all trace of the hardened, desert-dwelling scavenger melted away. It was a sweet smile, he found himself thinking. Warm. He repeated the name, enjoying the way his lips parted as he murmured the single syllable.

“Rey…”

He would have said much more, but this time it was the ship itself that interrupted. On the far side of the lounge, a section of decking broke loose, shot upward, and banked off the ceiling before coming to rest on the floor. Hissing vapor was starting to fill the room, threatening to overwhelm the ability of the atmospheric scrubbers to cleanse it.

Rey didn’t hesitate. Ignoring the emission spewing from beneath the deck, she raced over to peer down past the ragged edge of the opening. Finn joined her. He suspected the venting gas had to be nontoxic; otherwise they would have been sprawled out on the floor by now, unconscious or dying. Standing alongside her, he tried to see past the raging mist and down into the depths of whatever had blown.

She tried to see while simultaneously shielding her eyes. “I don’t know. Just hope it’s not the motivator. Ship of this age and class is bound to have one.” Sitting down, she slid both legs into the opening.

Finn stared at her. “You’re going down there? Without even knowing what the problem is?”

They locked eyes. “The only way to know what the problem is _is_ to go down there. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

He gave a reluctant shake of his head. “I’m real good at blowing things up. Not so good at putting them together. You sure there isn’t anything I can do?”

She tried to smile but couldn’t. “While I’m down there, don’t touch anything whose function you don’t understand completely—and if you hear a lot of screaming and cursing, stand by.”

He considered. “You’ll want me to pull you up?”

This time she did manage the smile. “Only if there’s just screaming and no cursing.” With that she slipped over the edge and down. Her slender form was quickly obscured by the roaring vapor.


	7. Chapter 7

THE GREAT SWEEP of the external observation portal on the Star Destroyer _Finalizer_ allowed anyone standing before it an uninterrupted view of the vastness of space. Suns and nebulae, mysteries and conundrums, all were laid out before the viewer. It was a view intended to awe and inspire, hence the presence of the portal where visual pickups and monitors would have sufficed just as well.

Kylo Ren regarded it in silence. He had been trained in contemplation, was skilled in deliberation, could remain meditating just so for hours at a time.

But he was losing patience. Approaching from behind, all Lieutenant Mitaka could see was a tall, caped figure silhouetted against the spray of stars. He did not look forward to having to make the report. It was his responsibility and he had no choice. Nor was it the first time he had been compelled to deliver bad news to a superior officer. But Kylo Ren was different. Not precisely a superior officer but something else. At that moment, Mitaka would rather have been anywhere else in the civilized galaxy than alone in a room with Kylo Ren.

The caped figure did not turn. He did not have to. Mitaka knew Ren was as aware of his arrival as if he had watched him approach. He was tracking the lieutenant with something other than eyes.

“Something to report, Lieutenant? Or have you come, like myself, to marvel at the view?”

“Sir?”

A gloved hand rose to take in the sweep of light and energy arrayed before them. “Look at it, Lieutenant. So much beauty among so much turmoil. In a way, we are but an infinitely smaller reflection of the same conflict. It is the task of the First Order to remove the disorder from our own existence, so that civilization may be returned to the stability that promotes progress. A stability that existed under the Empire, was reduced to anarchy by the Rebellion, was inherited in turn by the so-called Republic, and will be restored by us. Future historians will look upon this as the time when a strong hand brought the rule of law back to civilization.”

Mitaka forbore mentioning that the Republics had developed their own codes of law. To do so would have been…indelicate, and he doubted that Ren was in the mood for a political discussion of any kind. Standing at attention, he presented his brief report.

“Sir. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to acquire the Beebee-Ate droid on Jakku.”

Now Ren did turn. Mitaka would have preferred it the other way. He always found it unsettling to have to gaze at the metal mask beneath the cowl.

“It was destroyed? Do not tell me, Lieutenant, that the droid was destroyed.”

Mitaka swallowed hard. “No, sir. At least, not as far as we are able to determine. Reports from the ground indicate—”

He was interrupted. “No aerial survey results?”

“Two TIE fighters accompanied the recovery party. Contact has been lost with both and it is assumed… it is assumed they encountered unforeseen difficulties.”

Ren sneered softly. “You equivocate like a senator. Go on.”

“Reports from our troopers on the ground indicate that the droid escaped capture by taking flight aboard a stolen Corellian freighter, a YT model. An older craft but in the hands of a competent pilot, a capable one.”

Atypically, a touch of uncertainty colored Ren’s response. “The droid stole a freighter?”

“Not exactly, sir. Again, according to these preliminary reports, it had help.” Mitaka was starting to sweat. “We have no confirmation, but brief glimpses by our troopers correlated with the location of an earlier crash site lead us to believe that trooper FN-2187 may have been—”

He broke off as Ren reached for the lightsaber at his belt, activated the weapon, and raised the intense red band high. Expecting a swift judgment, Mitaka closed his eyes. After a moment, finding his head still attached to his neck, he dared to open them once more. Ren was slashing at the console nearby, at the walls, at the deck, rending and ripping, slashing long lines of bleeding metal into the very fabric of the ship. His rage was terrible to behold. Mitaka strove to remain perfectly still, to control his breathing, to become as invisible as possible lest he become nothing more than an inadvertent recipient of Ren’s fury. Whether by chance or design, Ren spared him.

Shutting off the lightsaber, the taller man turned to the wretched bearer of bad news. He spoke calmly, as if his mad, destructive rampage had been nothing more than a brief interlude: an illusion.

“Anything else?”

At least the worst of the report had been delivered, Mitaka knew. And he was still alive. He allowed himself to relax ever so slightly.

“The two were accompanied and likely abetted in their flight by a third party, presumably local. A girl.”

Reaching out, a black-gloved hand clutched the startled lieutenant and pulled him violently forward. That metallic visage was now close, closer than Mitaka had ever been to it. As the officer struggled to breathe in that remorseless grasp, Kylo Ren’s voice took on a timbre lower and more menacing than any the lieutenant had ever heard.

“What— _girl_?”

* * *

Kneeling by the opening in the deck, Finn struggled to peer down into the depths. The constant hiss of escaping vapor made it difficult to hear or see anything. He badly wanted to shut off the blaring emergency alarm but didn’t dare move away while Rey was still below and out of sight. Nor did he trust the droid to do it, fearing the worried mechanical might hit the wrong control. While a BB-8 model contained a lot of storage, he doubted the schematic for an old freighter was among the information on tap. Furthermore, this particular vessel had undergone a considerable number of modifications, not all of which might be hospitable to uninvited visitors. Booby traps, for example. As Rey worked out of sight below, he wondered if she had considered the same possibility.

Make the wrong adjustment and they could blow up the ship. Or the ship, responding on its own to unknown preprogramming, could blow them up. He hoped they hadn’t escaped the clutches of the First Order only to eliminate themselves.

A head popped up, surrounded by vapor. Perspiration streamed from Rey’s face. “It’s the motivator. Grab me a Harris wrench!” She pointed behind him. “Check in there.”

Turning, he unlatched the storage container she had pointed to and began rummaging through the contents. As a stormtrooper, he was trained to deal with certain emergencies. These included but were not limited to troubles of a mechanical nature, such as how to do basic repairs on a speeder and other ground transport vehicles. So he knew what he was looking for. He only hoped he could find it.

“How bad is it?” he yelled back at her as he continued to sort through the container’s jumbled contents, silently cursing the unknown owner of the ship. Whoever it was, he was no genius at organization. The tools and replacement components filled the container in the most haphazard, disorganized manner possible. “If we wanna live,” Rey’s voice echoed from below, “not good!”

The ship gave a nasty jolt, reminding Finn of their rapidly degrading situation. “Look, they’re out hunting for us now; we gotta get out of this system now! The longer we stay sublightspeed, the more certain the chance that their sweep scans will pick us up. I don’t want to have to try and outrun a Destroyer!”

Rey ignored him and glanced at the nearby droid. “Beebee-Ate said the location of the Resistance base is on a ‘need to know’ basis. If I’m going to take you two, _I need to know_!”

She disappeared below, once more leaving Finn and the droid alone in the shuddering, alarm-filled lounge. Busy as she was attempting to make the necessary repairs, he felt he could try to stall her. But that would only postpone the inevitable reckoning. Or he could ignore the query. Same inescapable result. He could lie, invent something— anything. Blurt out the name of any system, any realistic destination. Anything to get away from this world and the attention of the Order. A quick sideways glance showed that the droid was watching him. That wouldn’t work, either, since if nothing else BB-8 would contradict him. The only reply that would suffice was the true one, and he didn’t have it. He edged over toward the droid.

“Okay, look—we have to know the location of the Resistance base. You heard Rey. She thinks she can get us there—but you have to tell us where it is.” The droid emitted a flurry of rapid, soft beeps. An impatient Finn waved them off.

“I don’t speak that, but I think I got the gist. You just accused me of not being with the Resistance, didn’t you?” The droid’s body inclined forward slightly: a mechanical acknowledgment. “Right. Okay, just between us—no, I’m not. I’m a regular trooper who’s gone rogue. By my actions, I’ve renounced my oath. In the eyes of the Order, that makes me something worse than a Resistance fighter. I don’t know from the Resistance. All I’ve heard are stories and rumors and Order propaganda. But I do know what’s right from what’s wrong. That’s why I’ve done the things I’ve done. That’s why I find myself in this mess here and now.” He paused for breath.

“All I want, all I’m trying to do, is get away from the First Order. I don’t care where I end up as long as it’s clear of their influence. But you tell us where your base is and I’ll help you get there first, before I do anything for myself or on my own.” He gazed straight into the droid’s visual pickup. “Deal?”

BB-8 cocked his head to one side and said nothing. Finn felt no shame in pleading.

“Droid, _please_.”

He held the stare until a weary Rey appeared again. “Pilex driver, hurry!”

As Finn returned to the storage container and began searching anew, she took the moment to query him once more. “So, I didn’t hear. Where’s your base? Where’s our destination?”

Searching through the pile of tools and odds and ends, he murmured tersely to the watching droid, “Go on, Beebee-Ate. You tell her.”

Nothing from the droid. Not a sound, not a hum. Finn was on the verge of despair when the spherical mechanical finally uttered a short sequence of beeps. Rey looked surprised.

“The Ileenium system?”

Locating the requisite tool, a relieved Finn passed it to her. “Yeah, the Ileenium system.” Where the hell was the Ileenium system? he wondered. “That’s the one. Let’s get this crate fixed and head there as fast as we can, huh?”

“Doing the best I can down here.” Rey vanished again. As soon as she was out of sight, the grateful Finn gave BB-8 a thumbs-up. The droid responded by shooting out a welding torch in imitation of the human’s gesture.

She wasn’t gone long, nor was her attitude any more relaxed when she reappeared. “Bonding tape, hurry! If I get the ship working again, I’ll drop you two off at Ponemah Terminal, but that’s as far as I can go. Ponemah’s still neutral territory. You should be able to make contact with Resistance representatives from there.”

For the third time, Finn found himself plowing through the disorganized tool container. “What about you? What are you going to do? If anyone besides those two TIE fighter pilots saw you with us, your likeness is gonna be plastered all over this quadrant! If the Order doesn’t haul you in for questioning, reward- seekers and bounty hunters will be scouring every port in hopes of picking you up. Better for you if you stick with us.” He threw BB-8 a quick glance. “The Resistance will protect you.”

She shook her head. Vapor continued to geyser upward around her, though not as much as before, Finn noted. “I gotta get back to Jakku!”

“ _Back_ to Jak— Why does everyone always want to go back to Jakku? There’s nothing there! Sand and junk and rocks and sand and quicksand and sand—I don’t get it!” Picking up what looked like a sealer, he turned to toss it to her.

“No, that one!” She pointed, but her stance was none too steady and her hand kept weaving around. Doing his best to follow her directions, he hefted another instrument. “No! The one I’m pointing to!”

“I’m trying! And you’re not pointing real well, you know?” His exasperation nearly overcame his fear.

“ _That one!_ If we don’t get a patch on down here, the propulsion tank will overflow and flood the ship with poisonous gas.”

He tried another device. “No.”

Another.

“No—that one, to your left! No!”

Sidling up alongside Finn, BB-8 used his head to indicate the appropriate sealer. Hopeful, Finn picked it up. “This?”

By now he was surprised when instead of bawling “No!” again, she replied with an emphatic “Yes!” He tossed it to her, watched as she caught it easily and once more disappeared below. Leaving the tool container, he returned to the opening in the deck and called down to her. “You’re a _pilot_. You can go anywhere. Why go back? You got a family there? Back on Jakku?”

As the flow of vapor finally slowed and then ceased, so did the interminable alarm. Rey’s reappearance coincided with the return of comparative silence within the lounge. She broke it immediately.

“None of your business, _that’s why_.”

The sudden dimming of lights put a halt to any incipient argument. They flickered but did not go out. All three of the lounge’s occupants regarded their newly altered environment. BB-8 beeped nervously.

“That can’t be good,” Finn murmured. “No, it can’t be,” Rey agreed as she climbed out of the opening. Together, they headed back toward the cockpit.

This time Finn settled into the copilot’s seat. Looking back at him was a dead console. One did not have to be trained as a pilot to infer that a dead console did not bode well for future voyaging.

“It’s the motivator, isn’t it? That’s the component you were so worried about.” When she didn’t reply, his heart rate increased. “It’s worse than the motivator?”

Focusing on the console in front of her, Rey replied without looking up from the instrumentation. “I fixed that; this is something else.” Without much hope, she tried several controls before sitting back, defeated. “Someone’s locked onto us. All our controls are overridden. They’ve taken control of life support, too, for that matter. Easiest way to get us to cooperate.”

“Who’s taken control of us?” Tapping the scanner to remind him that it was useless, she could only shrug helplessly.

Nothing being visible through the front port, he left his seat and headed for the overhead observation dome.

“See anything?” she called back to him.

“ _Yeah_.” There was no need for elaboration. She would see for herself all too soon. Oddly enough, the sight allowed him to relax finally. There is no point in overexerting oneself when all hope is gone.

The other ship was gigantic, an enormous bulky freighter. The cargo bay door was open, and against the open hangar that loomed above, their stolen vessel appeared no bigger than an escape capsule. Its instrumentation frozen, its engines powerless, and its weapons systems dead, the paralyzed ship was drawn inexorably upward into the cavernous opening.

Returned to the cockpit, a defeated Finn slumped into the copilot’s seat, his gaze fixed forward as he spoke. “It’s the First Order. They’ve got us.” Behind them, BB-8 beeped querulously. Having nothing encouraging to say, Finn did not reply.

They weren’t going to the Ileenium system, he knew. Not now. The likelihood of them even returning to Jakku was infinitesimal. Their fates would be decided on board the ship that was presently pulling them in. Decided and expeditiously carried out. The First Order was nothing if not efficient.

So _close_. In spite of what he had done, in spite of his own personal rebellion nearly succeeding, it had all come to nothing. Useless. Poe Dameron was dead. Soon he, and this poor girl, would join the Resistance pilot. Whatever map or other information BB- 8 held would be forcibly extracted from the little droid, after which his memory would be wiped, his AI circuits removed, and the remainder probably recycled as scrap. Finn grunted softly. That was more than he and Rey could hope for. All he could do for her now was apologize for having inveigled her into a mess that was a consequence of his own making. He might relay that truth to the individuals presiding over his disposition. Plead on her behalf. But as an ex–First Order stormtrooper he knew that his words, however eloquent, would buy Rey only as much time as it took for him to speak them. He was bitter and resigned.

He also knew that if given the chance he would have done the same all over again. The only thing that separated him from his comrades, the only thing that defined him as an individual, was his unshakeable sense of what was right. That much, at least, he could take with him.

“What do we do?” Rey was saying beside him. She kept trying the controls, to no avail. “There must be _something_.”

He still could not look in her direction. “We can die.”

She refused to accept it. “ _There have to be other options besides dying!_ ”

He sighed heavily. “Sure. We could run—if the engines could be powered up. We could try and fight—if the blasters would function. We could step into the matter transporter—if such a thing existed.” He shook his head dolefully. “No, we’re dead. We don’t even have hand weapons to try and hold off a capture te—” He stopped abruptly. Now he did turn to her.

“Earlier, when you were working below: You said something about volatile chemicals? Mixing to create poisonous gases?”

She eyed him uncertainly. “Yeah, but I fixed that. There’s no blending now.”

His tone was deliberate, his stare unflinching. “Can you unfix it?”

It took her a moment to realize what he was driving at. When understanding came, her expression brightened. Together, they left the cockpit and headed back toward the lounge, BB-8 trailing close behind.

The emergency masks they removed from their storage stations were designed to protect against loss of atmosphere. They most emphatically were not intended to substitute for the environment suits that were employed during extravehicular excursions. But for the plan Finn had in mind, they should do just fine. Working together, they succeeded in wrestling the droid down into the service area below the deck. Once all three had safely managed the short descent, Finn pulled the blown section of decking back into place over his head. Fortunately, it had come loose in one piece and was unlikely to be noticed by preoccupied intruders. At least, not right away. It would have to suffice.

Next to him, Rey was working hard to undo the results of her earlier repair.

“This’ll work on stormtroopers?” she wondered as she manipulated the tools she had used earlier and left behind.

“Standard issue helmets are designed to filter out smoke, not toxins. To cope with the latter, a trooper needs to engage one of several special filters, depending on the specific contaminant. Identification is the province of one or two squad leaders. Having brought this ship on board theirs, I doubt anyone will think to check for airborne pollutants. It’s not like leading a ground assault, or forcing entry to an enemy warship. This is just an old freighter. Any kind of internal defense, much less something as nebulous as a gas counterattack, would be the last thing a squad sent to take its crew into custody would expect.”

Rey was plainly impressed. “You Resistance guys really know your stuff.”

He smiled uneasily. “You know what they say: Know your enemy.”

Abruptly, the ship’s internal illumination returned full strength. Even concealed within the service corridor, they could hear the muted sound of the ship’s ramp lowering.

“Here they come,” Finn whispered. “Hurry!”

“I am hurrying!” Her fingers worked nimbly at the seal she had applied.

“ _Really_ hurry!”

“I put this seal in place to keep us alive, not counter a hostile boarding,” she hissed back at him as her hands flew. “I made it to _last_. Don’t expect me to take it apart in a couple of minutes! Does this look like I’m _taking_ my—”

“Chewie, we’re home,” Finn heard a man say. Then the covering in the deck above them was ripped away. Hands raised in surrender, hoping that the least they could expect was not to be shot out of hand, they found themselves gazing up at… not a stormtrooper.

The man holding the blaster on them was not wearing a helmet; not even a protective visor. There was nothing to interfere with his angry expression. It filled a face scarred with know-how, aged by experience, and world-weary— characteristic of someone who had set foot on dozens of worlds. His eyes were hazel, his gray hair tousled, and he wore the look of a man who had seen too much, too soon, and been forced to deal with idiots all too often. His evident age notwithstanding, the hand holding the blaster neither shook nor wavered. Eying him, Finn felt he knew the type if not the man. His only fear then was that the man might shoot first and ask questions later. Thankfully, he did not.

“Where are the others?” While there might be cracks in the man’s countenance, there were none in his voice. “Where’s your pilot?”

Hands still raised, Rey gulped. Who was this hard-faced intruder, and where were the First Order stormtroopers? “I—I’m the pilot.”

Unblinking eyes regarded her with obvious disbelief. “ _You?_ ”

She nodded. “It’s just us.” She nodded once to her left. “Us and a droid.”

A second shape appeared above and beside their inquisitor. It was likewise most definitely not a stormtrooper. It was also much, much bigger than its blaster-wielding companion. A battery of sounds issued from between thick lips, something halfway between a moan and a question.

“No, it’s true,” Rey responded. “We’re the only ones on board.”

Still aiming the weapon in their direction, the man stepped back. “Get outta there. Come on up. No funny stuff. We’re watching you.” His attention focused on Rey, he almost smiled. When he did, there was a hint of something half playful in his demeanor. But only a hint. And there was nothing whatsoever lighthearted about the blaster he kept pointed in their direction.

As he emerged from the service corridor, Finn found himself looking up at the man’s companion. And up, and up.

Impatiently, their captor gestured ever so slightly with the muzzle of his blaster. “Where’d you find this ship?”

“Right here.” She saw no reason not to tell the truth. “I mean, down on the surface. Niima Outpost, to be specific.”

Dropping his lower jaw to signify his disbelief, he stared back at her. “ _Jakku_? That junkyard?”

“ _Thank you!_ ” Finn said. “Junkyard!” His original opinion confirmed, he shot Rey a look that was pure I-told-you-so.

Looking away from them for the first time since they had emerged from below, their captor addressed his towering cohort. “ _Told_ ya’ we should’ve double- checked the Western Reaches! Just lucky we were in the general vicinity when the ship powered up and its beacon snapped on.” He turned back to Rey. She was trying to make sense of the mismatched pair standing before her and failing utterly.

“Who had it?” he continued. “Ducain?”

Again, she thought: no reason to prevaricate. “I stole it from a salvage dealer named Unkar Plutt.”

Brows narrowed as the weathered visage wrinkled even more. “From who?”

“Look.” Taking a chance, Rey lowered her hands so she could spread her arms wide. “I don’t know all the details for sure. I’m not privy to Plutt’s private accounting. But talk says that Plutt stole this ship from the Irving Boys, who stole it from Ducain.”

“Who stole it from _me_!”

In addition to anger, their captor’s voice was filled with righteous indignation. To Rey, it sounded a little forced. Definitely this man was not now and never had been a stormtrooper or anything like it. What he had been, maybe, was someone not unlike herself. A bit of a businessman, a bit of a con man, a bit of an adventurer. And since he was older, it was only reasonable to assume that he had been a bit more of all of those things than herself. What his intentions toward them were she could not yet guess. But the fact that he didn’t know who Unkar Plutt was was definitely a plus on his side. He would be unlikely to immediately turn them over or try to sell them to someone he didn’t know. Where he stood in relation to the First Order remained to be seen. Thus far, at least, he didn’t strike her as someone overly interested in politics.

Her hurried speculation as to their captor’s possible motives was interrupted when he took a step toward her. Finn tensed, but neither the blaster nor the man’s free hand came up.

“Well, you tell him when you see him again, you tell him that Han Solo just stole back the _Millennium Falcon_ for good!”

Whirling, he holstered his blaster and headed for the cockpit, his lofty associate at his side. Either he was satisfied with her answers, Rey thought, or else he didn’t care. With his back to them as he headed in the opposite direction, neither Finn nor Rey caught the change of expression from the suggestion of a smile that had threatened to crack his heated glare to a wide, contented grin. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t his countenance that awed them: It was his name.

Han Solo.

A legend of the Rebellion against the Empire. Trader, pirate, con man, and fighter extraordinaire. It was hard to believe he was real, Finn thought. Solo was history come to life.

No longer under the gun, or even restrained, and abandoned in the lounge as if their presence was less than insignificant, Rey and Finn exchanged a look.

“What now?” Finn gestured in the direction of the corridor that led to the cockpit. “He—he just left us here.”

“We could wait for one of them to come back,” she suggested.

He nodded slowly. “Yes, we could do that. Just sit here and wait.”

Without another word they broke for the cockpit.


	8. Chapter 8

FINN AND REY caught up to the unlikely pair in the corridor. Wanting desperately to confront their captor—if captor was what he was, considering that he wasn’t acting much like one—Finn struggled to get past the hairy bipedal mountain that was blocking his path. Said mountain ignored Finn’s feeble efforts to push his way past.

Having managed to sidle past on the other side, Rey could hardly contain her incredulity. “This is the _Millennium Falcon_? I didn’t—I didn’t make the connection when we stole—when we came on board.” She could not keep herself from staring at the pilot. After all, it wasn’t every day in the galaxy that one met a living legend. In point of fact, it was her first living legend. For a living legend, a part of her mused, his appearance was more than a little disheveled. Almost as much as that of his companion.

“ _You’re_ Han Solo,” she said, looking askance.

This time instead of a smile, a grin: part amused, part knowing, and maybe a little bit bitter. “I used to be.”

Finn found himself equally dumbstruck. Here right before him, close enough to touch, was a celebrated figure from the ancient past. Well, he corrected himself, from the fractious past, anyway. He doubted the individual who had angrily confronted them with blaster in hand would take kindly to being referred to as _ancient_. And the looming mass of wailing hirsuteness who was his companion… what was his name? He searched his memory and what he knew of history. Slew something, that was it. No, he corrected himself. That didn’t fit as a name for a—what was the species called? Ookie? Again he fought to recall.

Chewbacca. Chewbacca the Wookiee. And Han Solo. _The_ Han Solo. Or else a pair of extremely accomplished liars. Though if what he could remember was accurate, accomplished liar would fit _the_ Han Solo as well as anything else.

No harm in probing further, Finn told himself. It wasn’t as if he and Rey were going anywhere. Not now.

“Han Solo?” he queried hesitantly. “The Rebellion general?”

“No,” Rey broke in, half accusingly, half admiringly. “The smuggler!”

“Huh?” If he had been bemused before, Finn was now thoroughly bewildered. Without thinking, he addressed the shaggy mass lumbering along in front of him. “Wasn’t he a war hero? In the fight against the Old Empire?”

Though the Wookiee uttered something guttural and incomprehensible, Finn thought he managed to catch the gist of it. Something along the lines of “Yeah—I guess—kinda…” Of course, the giant could equally have been confirming what Rey had said. Having no way of knowing whether his intuition or the girl’s identification was correct, he trailed along in confusion. It did not occur to him that both might be equally accurate.

Rey could not keep from looking around, seeing the ship she had stolen in an entirely new light. No wonder it was crammed full of modifications! No wonder it had demonstrated unusual speed and maneuverability.

“ _The Millennium Falcon._ ” She could not keep the wonder out of her voice. “This is the ship that made the Kessel Run in fourteen parsecs.”

“ _Twelve_ parsecs.” Entering the cockpit ahead of the others, Han scanned the console. A wave of something washed over the _Millennium Falcon’s_ rightful owner. Not nostalgia. That wasn’t part of his makeup. But there was definitely something. Possibly remembrance of old friendships, or adventures long past, or exotic destinations once visited. Most likely the financial opportunities missed. Moving forward, he let his hands rest on the main console as his eyes continued to rove from instrument to monitor to…

What the devil was _that_?

Moving slightly to his right, he touched a couple of contacts and was rewarded with a readout that was anything but pleasing.

“Hey! Some moof-milker installed a compressor on the ignition line!”

“Unkar Plutt did.” Rey saw Finn shoot her a look and she glanced away, abashed. “I’d spent some time poking around all the ships parked at the outpost. Mostly at night. It was a way to learn some things. I was careful, and nobody much cared anyway, since I never took anything or tried anything.” She brightened. “Made it a lot easier when we filched this one. Though it wasn’t my first choice.”

Han nodded knowingly. “I can relate to that. What halfwit puts a compressor on an ignition line?”

She nodded in agreement. “I thought it was a mistake, too. Puts too much stress on the hyperdrive flow.”

“…Stress on the hyperdrive flow,” Han echoed, reaching the same conclusion at the same time. For an instant he looked puzzled and just a tad curious. Who was this girl, who spoke so knowledgeably of flow rates and ignition pressures? His curiosity didn’t last long. Too many other matters of greater consequence were on his mind.

“Chewie, put ’em in a pod and send them back to Jakku. Or anywhere else local they want to go.”

“Wait, no!” Rey moved toward him. A stern stare halted her in her tracks but could not silence her. “We need your help!”

His brow wrinkled. “ _My_ help…”

Holding her ground, she indicated the silently watching BB-8. “This droid has to get to the nearest Resistance base as soon as possible. He’s carrying a map that leads to the present location of Luke Skywalker!”

The strangest look came over the _Falcon’s_ owner. In an instant and in response to Rey’s distressed request, all the hardness seemed to drain out of him. For a moment he was no longer on the ship. He was not even in Jakku’s system, but somewhere else. Unable to stand the lack of response, Finn spoke up.

“You _are_ the Han Solo who fought with the Rebellion? If so, then you knew him.”

“Knew him?” The flinty stare had gone hazy, the strong voice soft. “Yeah, I knew Luke.”

“Well, then,” Finn continued, “maybe you could—”

He broke off as a distant but distinct metallic _thunk_ reached them inside the _Falcon_. Snapping back to the present, Han was all business again as he scowled in the direction of the ship’s loading ramp.

“Well, that tears it. Don’t tell me a rathtar’s gotten loose.” Without another word he vacated the cockpit, hurrying back the way he’d come. Everyone else followed, with BB-8 bringing up the rear. Neither Rey nor the droid had the slightest idea what was going on. Finn did, and wished he didn’t. Though he’d never seen a rathtar, he knew a little something about the species. A little, he knew, was more than enough. He had to struggle to keep up with the _Falcon’s_ owner, who moved with surprising speed. Not unlike his ship, the trooper realized.

“Wait, wait,” he implored the older man.

Ignoring him, Han exited the _Falcon_ onto one of the service decks of the enormous freighter and headed directly for the nearest control panel.

“Hold up now. I need to be sure what you said. A _what’s_ gotten loose?”

“Rathtar,” Han replied curtly.

“No.” Finn was shaking his head. “You’re not hauling rathtars.”

Han spoke without breaking stride. “I’m hauling rathtars.”

Materializing within and above the console, a host of images revealed both the interior and exterior of the hulking freighter. One of the latter revealed the approach of a nonmilitary transport. The sleek craft nudged its way along the hull, like a parasite hunting for an easy way into a potential host. Not recognizing the ship’s design, Finn focused on Han instead. The pilot’s expression showed that he was not pleased.

“You recognize the arrival,” Finn said. It was not a question. “From the look on your face, I can tell that you wish you didn’t.”

“You could say that,” Han replied. “It’s the Guavian Death Gang.” He looked over at the Wookiee, who moaned confirmation. “Yeah. They must’ve tracked us from Nantoon. You’d think traveling through hyperspace you could throw people off. Not these guys. That’s never good. They’re persistent. I hate that.”

“Hate what?”

Han didn’t look at him. “When someone who wants to kill us finds us.” Abandoning the cockpit, he and the Wookiee headed off toward a circular corridor opening. Once again, Finn and Rey found themselves reduced to following.

“What’s a rathtar?” Rey asked Finn. They were now hurrying down a passageway that had, like the rest of the lumbering freighter, seen better times. Splashes of paint and old stain substituted for more efficient indicators, while unidentifiable crates and piles of gear were piled haphazardly in corners and against the walls.

It was Han who replied first. “You want the scientific description? They’re big and dangerous and ugly.”

“O-kaaay,” she responded. “Why would anyone want something big, dangerous, and ugly? Who would want something big, dangerous, and ugly? And be willing to pay for it?”

 _Where the hell was that accessway?_ Han wondered. Girl sure had a lot of questions. “People have funny hobbies,” he explained as he kept moving fast. “Some are collectors. There are those who collect different kinds of galactic currencies, some who collect old liquor containers, a few who like to accumulate holos of famous entertainers. Seems like the more money they have, the bigger the things they like to collect. There are even a handful who like to collect biological specimens. Those with money collect live ones. Those without money become scientists.” He gestured and they turned a corner.

Finn moved closer to Rey. “I know of a perfect example that explains everything you’d ever want to know about rathtars.” She eyed him expectantly. “Ever hear of the Trillia Massacre?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“ _Good_ ,” he replied. And that was the extent of his explanation, briefly referencing an incident so vile and depraved that he wished only to assure himself she knew nothing about it.

“So,” she continued, turning her attention back to Han, who at least seemed willing to explicate a little, “you’re carrying these rathtars to a collector?”

He nodded. “I got three going to King Prana. Kings not only like to collect, they like to boast about their collections. Seems Prana’s in competition with the regent of the Mol’leaj system. The regent doesn’t have a rathtar in his private zoo. Neither does anybody else.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Finn muttered.

“So I got this contract to get some for Prana. Three. It was difficult work. I’m expecting a bonus, and I’m not ready to give it all up just because of the Guavian Death Gang.”

“Three!” Finn could hardly believe what he was hearing. “How’d you get them on board?”

Han looked over at him. “I could tell you that Chewie and I got a bunch of their favorite food, tied it to a stick, and led them into the holding bay. But that would be a lie. Let’s just say I used to have a bigger crew.”

Striding effortlessly alongside, Chewbacca groaned assent. Behind Finn, BB-8 beeped a question to which the Wookiee readily replied. Droid and Wookiee then entered into a rapid-fire conversation, the sound of which made Finn’s head hurt.

He was wondering why Han called a halt in the middle of an unremarkable section of corridor until their guide activated a hidden wall control and a hatch opened in the floor. He gestured for them to descend.

“Get below deck until I say so. Don’t go wandering around: This ship is big enough to get lost in, and there are areas you don’t want to go.” He smiled thinly.

“Some of the cargo would be glad to see you, but you wouldn’t want to see it. And don’t even think about trying to take the _Falcon_.”

Rey indicated the waiting droid. “What about Beebee-Ate?”

“He’ll stay with me. If he’s that important to you, that’ll ensure you don’t try anything funny. I’m still not sure I buy your story.”

If Han found out that he had a stormtrooper in his midst… No, Finn corrected himself. Ex- stormtrooper. FN-2187 was dead. He was _Finn_ , and no longer a fighter for the First Order. Why, the best pilot in the Resistance could testify on his behalf! If only his friend were alive…

Halfway down the hatch stairway, Rey paused to look back. “What happens now?”

Han’s attitude softened slightly. “When I get rid of the gang, you can have your droid back and be on your way.” He glanced across at BB-8. “I’m used to dealing with droids.”

“The rathtars.” Finn couldn’t keep from asking. “Where are you keeping them?”

A thunderous _wham_ sounded behind him and he jumped, stumbling toward the open hatch. Behind an oversize, triple- reinforced port, an orange orb appeared. Finn assumed it was just an eye of some kind, but it was still big, dangerous, and ugly. Finn’s heart slammed against his chest.

“Well, there’s one,” Han said nonchalantly. “Or part of one, anyway.” For a second time something massive rammed against the opposite wall, and the deck shuddered under their feet. “Not real bright, rathtars. You’d think by this time they’d have figured out they can’t break out of their holding compartments, but they’ve been banging away at the walls ever since Chewie and I got them on board. They don’t seem to get tired.”

“Maybe they just want food.” Finn had managed to calm himself.

Han cocked an eye at him. “You volunteering?”

For an instant, Finn wondered if their guide was being more than half serious. Then Han smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t think a rathtar would eat you anyway. You’re not their natural prey. Take you apart piece by piece and stomp on the pieces, yes. But not eat you. Now get below. And keep _quiet_.”

“What are _you_ gonna do?” Rey asked from the opening. “I’ve never heard of a Guavian Death Gang, but it doesn’t sound like something one man can handle.” She nodded toward Chewbacca. “Not even one man and a Wookiee.”

Han shrugged. “Same thing I always do. Talk my way out of it.” At this his towering companion uttered a series of short, sharp moans and grunts. Han frowned up at him. “That is so unfair! Come on.” Again the countervailing moaning. “Of course I do—so far.” They started down the corridor back the way they had come, arguing all the way.

“Yes, I do,” Rey and Finn heard Han saying as he and Chewbacca turned the far corner. “Every time.”

They were alone in the sub-deck accessway. Except, Finn reminded himself uneasily, for the ravening monstrosity on the other side of the near wall. Thankfully, it had ceased its fruitless attempts to break free.

“What now?” he heard himself asking. Standing in the hatch opening, Rey peered downward. “We follow his instructions. After all, he’s Han Solo. He must know what he’s doing.”

* * *

Han’s thoughts were working overtime as he and Chewie headed toward the cargo bay where the Guavian ship was most likely to have gained entrance. On a warship, or even on the _Falcon_ , controls could have been activated to keep them out. But the lumbering freighter presently in his charge had thoughtfully, and unfortunately, been equipped with instrumentation allowing unhampered access from the outside. It was a safety measure, designed and installed to ensure that in the event some fool crew locked themselves outside the ship, they could always get back in. A useful abettor that at this particular moment he deeply regretted.

Not that the Guavians, if denied entrance, would have hesitated to blast their way in. At least this way the big freighter wasn’t damaged. As for that happening to him and Chewie, it remained to be seen.

 _No problem_ , he kept repeating to himself. _You’ve done this a hundred times before, with everything from helpers to Hutts. Just stay calm and collected and baffle them with space dust._

They never made it to the cargo bay. In fact, they didn’t have to look for the gang, because the gang found them. He and Chewie had hardly left Rey and Finn behind when a circular portal opened in the corridor ahead to admit six figures, all humanoid: five members of a helmeted, red-uniformed security team and one man in a suit. Han recognized Bala-Tik immediately: confident, experienced, and, at the moment, all but bursting with barely controlled anger. Inclining his head slightly toward his companion, Han whispered confidently.

“I got this. Leave it to me.”

Chewbacca coughed something not repeatable in polite Wookiee company.

“Han Solo,” came the clipped voice of the gang leader, “you are a dead man.”

Not a very promising beginning, Han had to admit. Not that he had expected anything else. The gang leader wasn’t one to waste time on false pleasantries. Smiling broadly, he nodded back.

“Bala-Tik! Welcome aboard. Always good to see an old business associate. What’s the problem?”

His visitor was not amused. “The problem is we loaned you fifty thousand for this job.”

Peering through the grated hatch cover, Finn strained to hear what was transpiring down the corridor.

“Can you see them?” an anxious Rey asked.

He shook his head. “No. They’re too far away. I can hear that they’re talking, but I can’t make out the words. At least they aren’t shooting at each other. Yet.”

Rey considered. “If they found Han and Chewbacca this quickly inside a ship this big, that suggests they’ve got at least short-range life-form detectors. Which means if one of them starts wondering about the possible existence of other crew members, they might find us.” She looked around. “We’ll be safe enough here because we’re close to one of the rathtars, but if they start parsing readouts, they’ll separate us out from the cargo.” She nodded up the service crawl space. “I’m not gonna sit here and wait to be pried out like a mithuk in a burrow. The _Falcon_ is this direction.” She started moving.

Finn hesitated. “Han specifically said not to think about taking the _Falcon_.”

She looked back at him. “He’s talking to a Guavian Death Gang. It’s not inconceivable that polite conversation might turn into uncontrolled blaster fire. If that happens and Han is on the losing end, I’d like to have a chance to avoid the consequences. Like maybe being fed to the rathtars. Coming?”

“Right behind you,” he replied with alacrity. Together they started moving fast along the crawl space.

* * *

Han smiled while spinning a ready response, having already anticipated Bala-Tik’s likely reaction. “Sure, right. Fifty thousand. A modest investment on which you’re going to make a big, fat profit. Don’t all my business enterprises pay off?”

“No,” the Guavian gang leader replied curtly.

Han spread his hands wide. “Sure they do! I’ve never lost money on a single venture.”

“Yes, you have.” Bala-Tik was relentless.

“Hey, everybody who does business with me gets their money back even if I lose.”

“No, they don’t.” Relentless _and_ cold. Cold as only the head of a Guavian Death Gang can be.

Han responded with an exaggerated shake of his head and looked up at the Wookiee. “Can you believe this, Chewie? Out of the goodness of my heart and respect for everything this person represents, _I_ bring to _him_ the investment of the year, and all he can do is mock me!” He returned his attention to the silent Bala-Tik. “I expect thanks and all I get are insults. I didn’t have to come to you, you know. I could have gone to anyone with this deal and they would have jumped at the chance to get in on it. But no: I offered it to you. And this is my thanks?” His tone turned challenging. “What is it, Bala-Tik? Don’t you want your cut of the proceeds?”

“I want my fifty thousand back,” the gang leader snapped.

Han rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine! If that’s the way you want it.”

“Kanjiklub also wants their fifty thousand back.”

Han gaped at him. “What?”

“Kanjiklub,” Bala-Tik repeated calmly. “You also borrowed fifty thousand from them.”

Han strove to remain calm, though he could not prevent a bit of the color draining from his face. “That’s a lie! Who told you that?”

“Kanjiklub,” Bala-Tik replied without twitching so much as an eyelash.

Han turned a disbelieving circle, his voice filled with outrage. “Oh, come on! You can’t trust those little freaks!”

Quiet crawling up the corridor serviceway had brought Finn and Rey to a position below and dangerously close to the intruders. At least, Finn told himself, they could now see and hear what was going on.

“They have blasters,” she whispered. Finn nodded. “A lot of ’em.”

Above, Han continued the dialogue. “C’mon, Bala—how long have we known each other?”

The gang leader was not about to be inveigled by smooth chatter. Especially not when large loaned sums were involved. “The question is how much longer _will_ we know each other? Not long, I think. Unless we get our money back. And we want it back _now_.”

“The rathtars are here, on board this ship,” Han shot back. “I know it’s taken a little longer than I promised—”

“Way longer,” Bala-Tik cut in. “Too much longer.”

“—but I’ve got ’em, and King Prana is just waiting—no, he’s _eager_ —to pay.

Just be a little patient. You’ll get your money back, plus the promised profit.”

Bala-Tik was growing impatient. “Says you. That is what you said when you borrowed the money. That is what you have being saying via communicator for some time now. Then you went silent. Failed to answer all communications.”

“I was busy,” an exasperated Han informed him, “collecting rathtars.”

“So you say. In the absence of any communication, we did not know what you were doing. With our money. We suspected the worst.”

Han smiled afresh. “And now you know the truth. You’re here, I’m here, and the rathtars for King Prana are here. You think it’s cheap hunting rathtars? I spent that money. I _used_ that money. Just let me make delivery and you’ll have your investment back. Come with me if you want.”

The gang leader’s gaze narrowed. “Come with you? Try to follow you in hyperspace? So that you can lose us, take a roundabout route to King Prana, collect all the money, and disappear again? I think not. I don’t trust you anymore, Solo.” He indicated his men. “ _We_ don’t trust you. So give us our money back. Kanjiklub wants their investment back, too.”

Han’s reply was replete with frustration. “I told you: I never made a deal with Kanjiklub!”

Bala-Tik gave an indifferent shrug. “Tell that to Kanjiklub.” He nodded, looking past Han and Chewbacca.

Both peered back the way they had come. At the other end of the same corridor, another portal opened. An additional clutch of armed intruders appeared, whereupon Han’s face lost another bit of color. Though the newcomers differed greatly in appearance from the Guavians, he recognized them immediately from their patchwork armor and heavy gear.

Kanjiklub cohorts.

Their leader, a long-haired, grim- faced, and thoroughly disreputable individual wanted on at least six worlds, emerged from the group to confront him. For the second time in all too short a while, Han greeted an unwelcome boarder with a smile as wide as it was bogus.

“Tasu Leech! Good to see you!”

Han knew perfectly well that Tasu Leech would never deign to speak Basic, so he was not surprised when the man replied in another language—one with which Han was, fortunately, familiar. “Wrong again, Solo. It’s over for you, and for your associate.” Raising the weapon he held, Leech aimed it down the corridor.

Chewbacca growled a response, causing Han to mutter under his breath.

“Not _now_ , Chewie! That won’t help.” Han took a deep breath. “Guys! You’re all gonna get what I promised. The merchandise is here, the buyer is waiting. I just need to make the delivery. Have I ever not delivered for you before?”

Moving his hands deliberately and slowly, Tasu Leech made a show of activating his weapon. “Twice.”

Han frowned. Leech was correct, of course, but Han wasn’t about to admit it. “Twice?”

“Your game is old,” Bala-Tik called out from the other end of the corridor. “You’ve played it too many times. Your excuses wore thin many years ago. So many times, so many excuses. Everyone knows them now. I stand here before you and can recite in my head the excuses you are going to make before you yourself can speak them. You are tired, Han Solo. Tired and old, just like your game. There is no one in the galaxy left for you to swindle.”

“Nowhere left for you to hide,” added Leech, not to be outdone. “Usually a senile old fool knows when to retire. But sometimes he simply needs to be retired.” He started to raise his weapon.

“Wait!” Something had caught Bala-Tik’s attention. Taking a couple of steps forward, he peered between Han and Chewbacca. The short, spherical shape sitting there moved slightly to its right, trying to stay hidden behind the Wookiee. “That BB unit—chatter says that the First Order is looking for one just like it. Accompanied by two fugitives.”

Han was remarkably indifferent. “First I’ve heard of it.”

Below, straining for a better look, Rey sought purchase on a transition bar. Unfortunately, it was old and weak. Under her weight, it broke free, fell just out of reach of her fingers, and clanged against the floor.

Everyone on the decking above reacted instantly to the sound. Tasu Leech’s second-in-command, an unlovely character named Razoo Qin- Fee, stepped forward.

“Search the freighter,” Bala-Tik ordered.

Activating an illuminator, another of the Kanji group started down the corridor, aiming the light into every crack, transparent panel, and opening in the walls and floor.

Rey and Finn started moving fast, away from the searchlight and along the crawl space. “We could die here,” Rey said.

“That’s possible.” Finn kept up with her. “In fact, given the present circumstances, I’d say it’s almost likely.”

“That’s right,” she muttered back at him. “Try to be optimistic.”

He gestured upward. “We don’t have weapons, we’re relying on the fast talk of an old smuggler who may or may not have been a Rebellion general, and we’re trapped between a bunch of homicidal Kanjiklubbers and a Guavian Death Gang. Excuse me if I don’t sound optimistic.”

“Keep moving!” she snapped. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“We’d better,” he muttered in reply, “because we sure don’t have anything else going for us.”

Initially prepared to shoot Solo down where he stood, Bala-Tik now found himself desirous of the answers to a few questions. There was no rush to kill the smuggler and the Wookiee. They were trapped in the corridor and weren’t going anywhere.

“Be cooperative, Solo, and maybe we can work something out.”

Handed a lifeline, however short, Han was grateful for a chance to stall for time. “What do you want to know, Bala?

Like I said, I don’t know anything about the Order’s interest in a BB model or some suspected fugitives.”

“Okay then,” the gang leader replied. “We’ll keep it simple. Where’d you get the droid?”

“He’s mine, that’s where.” Han met Bala-Tik’s stare evenly.

The gang leader was not intimidated.

Nor was he pleased.

“I am afraid that is not a satisfactory answer.” He smiled dangerously. “As you say, Han, we have known each other a long while. In all that time I have never known you to frequent the company of droids, of whatever station or model. Certainly not to be so protective of one.”

“Who says I’m being protective of it?”

Bala-Tik gestured. “It tries to conceal itself behind you.”

Looking back, Han nudged the droid with a leg but failed to shift BB-8 from its position. “I don’t care where it puts itself. It doesn’t take much to frighten a droid, Bala.”

The gang leader nodded agreement. “Especially one that might be wanted by the First Order.”

As Han and the gang leader argued, Rey halted her retreat so abruptly than Finn nearly crashed into her.

“Now what?” he asked. “Please tell me you’ve stumbled over a couple of pulse rifles.”

She was staring at a section of wall. “Maybe something even better.” She tapped the cover that protected a slight bulge in the wall. “If this is a flow panel for this corridor, I might be able to manually disrupt the programming. That would trip the emergency sequence and drop all the blast doors in this section. We can trap both gangs!”

Finn considered. “Shut the blast doors from down here? Won’t that trap Han and Chewbacca, as well?”

She was excited now. “Yes, but they’ll be separated from the gangs. We can work out how to get them out _after_ we’ve neutralized the Guavians and the Kanjis. Redirecting the flow should do it. It doesn’t matter to what level: All we want to do is bring down the blast doors.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Let’s do it. What’ve we got to lose?”

She opened the panel, exposing the intricate flowtronics within, and set to work. Tools would have made it easier, but the system was designed to be set and reset as easily as possible. Finn lent a hand, following her lead.

Above, Bala-Tik was out of questions and out of patience. “Enough banter.”

“Bantha? Now you want a bantha?” Han asked. “What, three rathtars aren’t enough for you?”

“We’re going to take that droid,” Bala-Tik told him firmly. “And you’re going to give us our money back.”

“Or your dead body.” Razoo Qin-Fee spoke as he continued to ply the corners of the corridor with his illuminator. “Your choice, Solo.”

Members of both gangs laughed. Han laughed with them, albeit uncomfortably. Even if he could keep Bala-Tik talking, the Kanjis were notoriously poor listeners. And he was about out of clever things to say.

That was when the lights began to flicker. Laughter faded as Kanji and Guavian alike regarded the now sporadic illumination with uncertainty.

Distant components cycling on and off filled the corridor with a clicking and gnashing like the cries of a thousand mechanical insects. Han’s eyes widened. With Chewie moaning beside him, he murmured softly.

“I got a bad feeling about this.”

* * *

Abruptly, the illumination in the corridor returned to life brighter than ever. Below, Rey leaned back from the now modified flow panel.

“Uh oh.”

Finn looked from her to the panel and back again. “Uh oh, what?”

She turned to him, slightly pale. “Uh oh, wrong reflow. I didn’t close anything. I opened everything.”

He leaned close to the exposed panel, studying the interior lines. “Can you put it back the way it was?”

She shook her head rapidly. “I purposely locked the reset so that if there was a corresponding panel anywhere in the corridor itself, nobody could undo it and raise the blast doors. Except they’re not going to close now— and everything else is going to raise up.”

Finn stared at her, one thought in his mind, one word on his lips.

_"Rathtars.”_


	9. Chapter 9

“ENOUGH OF THIS,” Bala-Tik snarled. He looked back at his men. “New plan! Kill them and take the droid!”

Weapons came up. Han and Chewbacca looked around wildly, but in the smooth-sided corridor there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Han closed his eyes.

Which was when something monstrous appeared behind the Guavians. It was so large it could barely fit in the cargo corridor. Tentacles whipped out to snatch up two of the gang, who screamed as their torsos were crushed. Whirling, howling, those who were still able to do so unleashed wild bursts of fire in the direction of their attacker. Those that struck the rathtar barely caused it to flinch. Wisely, Bala- Tik and the survivors scattered.

Han opened one eye. Turning, he expected the burst of Guavian fire that had failed to reach him to be replaced by a similar barrage from the Kanjiklub members. Except that another rathtar had appeared behind them and, roaring deafeningly, was busily taking the aliens apart. Chewbacca let out a series of short, clipped moans.

“No kidding!” Han yelled. “Come on!” Together, they raced for a side corridor. Under the guns and watchful eyes of both gangs, they never would have made it. But all remaining guns and surviving eyes were, at present, otherwise occupied.

As misdirected blasts smashed into the crawl space around them, tearing streaks in the metal and threatening to make it impossible to move across the overheating floor, Finn and Rey found themselves crawling for their lives.

“That was a mistake!” Finn howled, ignoring the pain in his hands and knees.

“ _Huge!_ ” Rey agreed.

Above, Han nearly ran into one of the Guavians. Fleeing from the rathtar behind him while shooting fruitlessly at the monster, the Guavian never saw Han and Chewie—though he did make the acquaintance of Han’s fist. Staggering, he tried to bring his gun to bear on the new threat, only to be sent flying toward the rathtar by the strong arms of the Wookiee. One tentacle caught the unlucky gang member before he could hit the ground.

“Other direction,” Han blurted. Chewie moaned while BB-8 beeped frantically. Finding instant agreement in three different languages, they took an accessway that was, for the moment at least, devoid of Guavians, Kanjis, and rathtars.

Elsewhere, Razoo Qin-Fee scuttled past a pair of Guavians who were racing full bore in the opposite direction. Their haste gave him pause, which enabled him to hail a fellow Kanjiklub member coming toward him—just before a tentacle emerged in that individual’s wake to grab him and wrench him out of sight. Deciding that the two Guavians who had just passed him going like hell in the other direction might have a better handle on the situation, Razoo whirled and retraced his steps. This brought him back to two surviving members of his own group. A hasty discussion determined they should avoid both ends of the corridor. Accordingly, they turned down another passageway—whereupon the third rathtar grabbed the pair who had just counseled Razoo. He fired at the creature, with the same ineffectual result as before, and raced away.

It was a big ship, he told himself. There _had_ to be a place somewhere that was safe from the escaped rathtars. On the other hand, if the rathtars were between him and his own ship, he might never get off alive. Working cooperatively, as a pack, the carnivores would hunt him down along with every one of his companions. That was the thing about rathtars: While they acted like mindless eating machines and didn’t have very large brains, they were really good at working together. And fast. It was hard to believe how fast something that size could move.

No, he was dead for sure, unless he could somehow circle around them and back to where his ship was docked. As he ran, terrified of what he might encounter around the next corner or in the next corridor over, his only solace came from the knowledge that that unspeakable sack of treachery Han Solo was certain to meet the same fate, and in the jaws of his own cargo.

It was small consolation, but in his present dire situation, he clung to it.

A tentative Finn flipped open a hatch and looked down the brightly lit corridor. Nothing. Turning, he looked in the other direction. Nothing. No evilly chattering Kanjiklub members, no heavily armed Guavians, and most important, no slobbering multi-limbed rathtars. He climbed out, giving Rey a hand up, and pointed.

“ _Falcon’s_ this way!”

She hesitated. “You sure?”

“No! But we can’t stay here and wait for Kanjiklubbers and Guavians. We’ve got to try _something_.”

He was thankful but hardly surprised to see how easily she kept up with him as they raced for a far corner. Surviving as a scavenger on Jakku ensured that she was in at least as good physical condition as the average trooper.

“These rathtars?” she was asking him. “What do they look like?”

Rounding the corner, they were brought up short by the sight of surviving gang members doing battle with the subject of her query. It was enormous and round, covered in light-sensitive orange orbs, and composed mostly of tentacles and teeth. Raising one hand to her mouth, she caught her breath, simultaneously mesmerized and horrified by the sight.

“They look like that.” Finn reached over and took her arm, not caring this time if she objected. Back the way they had come, around another corner—only this time they didn’t stop fast enough.

One tentacle whipped around Finn’s waist, and moving with incredible speed for something so massive, the rathtar rushed off with the screaming trooper in its grasp.

“ _FINN!_ ”

Though it was too big for her and too fast, she gave chase anyway.

Fighting in a desperate attempt to break free, Finn realized he might as well have been wrestling with a steel cable. Neither pounding on it with his fists nor kicking at it with his drawn-up legs produced the slightest reaction on the creature’s part. He even resorted to trying to take a bite out of it. The hard, rubbery flesh proved impenetrable. At that moment he would have given a limb for a blaster, even though small-arms fire had shown itself to be largely ineffectual against the monsters.

“ _Finn!_ ”

Not only had Rey lost sight of him, but now the rathtar had moved so far ahead she could no longer hear Finn’s shouts for help. It was a futile exercise anyway. Suppose she did catch up? The rathtar had more than enough appendages with which to sweep her into its grasp without letting go of Finn. Still, she kept running, keeping an eye out for anything that could be of use.

**SUBSIDIARY BAY CONTROL ROOM**

She’d run all the way past the door before the full meaning of the words struck home. Halting, she ran back and slammed an open palm over the access panel. For an awful moment nothing happened and she was afraid that the relevant system was down. Then the door slid aside, admitting her.

Ignoring entire banks of instrumentation, she made her way to a set of multiple monitors. Not only was the system not down, it was fully activated. There were clear views of motionless cargo, empty storage rooms, the _Millennium Falcon_ , both the Guavian and Kanjiklub vessels, and…

Finn, being dragged down a main corridor by the rathtar. Dragged toward an empty intersection.

One hand over the pertinent control, she leaned toward the monitor, watching, waiting, hoping that it would respond faster than the door that had led to this control room. _Wait_ , she told herself, suspecting that if she blew the opportunity she might not get another. Or at least not another where she would have a chance to recover Finn in one piece.

Slowing, the rathtar edged forward, checking both cross corridors. No wonder they were so dangerous, she told herself as she kept her attention locked on the monitor. Reassured, the creature started forward again, dragging the increasingly weakened Finn behind it.

Her hand came down on the control. An indicator flipped from green to red.

On the monitor, a blast door descended with gratifying speed. The rathtar reacted almost immediately—but not quite fast enough to prevent one of its tentacles from being severed by the emergency door. The tentacle, she had calculated, that was gripping Finn.

The shriek of pain and fury from the rathtar was horrible to hear. She paid it hardly any attention as she watched a dazed Finn struggle to his feet and commence fighting to extricate himself from the still-clinging piece of amputated limb.

Stunned by his unexpected escape, he was free of it by the time she arrived. “It didn’t get you,” he said unnecessarily.

“It had me!” He turned around. “But there was a blast door, came down at just the right moment…”

“Lucky,” she told him. “Which way did you say the _Falcon_ was?”

For a moment he eyed her uncertainly, unable to quite escape the feeling that there was something she wasn’t telling him. No time for questions now, though. He pointed.

“That way—I hope.”

In another corridor Bala-Tik was talking to one of his gang’s surviving members. “That thing’s taken two of my men.” As he said it, a tentacle slipped forward to wrap itself around another screaming associate. “Three of my men,” the Guavian corrected himself.

If they didn’t do something soon, he knew, none of them would get off this cursed freighter alive. Even as he retreated, firing behind him, he could not keep from wondering how Solo, that worthless dispenser of devious schemes, had managed to pull it off. Capturing even one rathtar was considered a near- impossibility. Impounding _three_ and then getting them aboard a ship alive and in good condition stretched all bounds of believability.

Probably, an increasingly desperate Bala-Tik thought as he let off yet another ineffectual blast, Solo had done it by talking all of them into a state of complete insensibility.

At the far end of the main cargo corridor, the object of the Guavian’s curses had taken cover together with Chewbacca and BB-8. Demonstrating unexpected determination in the face of rathtar-inspired bedlam, several members of both gangs had continued to pursue. Their persistent fire prevented human, Wookiee, and droid from crossing the cargo-crowded open bay to reach the waiting disc-shaped ship on the other side.

These guys must _really_ want their money back, Han thought as he and Chewbacca returned fire with weapons they had recovered from where rathtar- munched Guavians and Kanjis had dropped them.

Having come this far, he was not about to be denied. Sidling around behind the Wookiee, he gestured across the bay deck. “I’ll get the door. Cover us.”

Moaning assent, Chewbacca let loose a ferocious barrage as Han, also firing, darted across the open space toward the _Falcon_. BB-8 went with him, judiciously choosing to keep the human between himself and the intruders’ fire. Once back at his ship, Han methodically activated the portal via the external emergency controls. For the first time in quite a while he felt some relief, as the ramp lowered smoothly. Turning, he yelled back toward the corridor terminus.

“Chewie, we’re in! Come on!”

Letting out a bellow that signified both recognition of Han’s call and defiance of their remaining enemies, the Wookiee turned and raced for the waiting ship—only to be hit in the back of a shoulder by a lucky shot from one of the pursuing Guavians. The impact sent him crashing to the deck.

Uttering a quiet curse, Han left BB-8 behind and raced back toward his injured copilot, firing as he ran. A single well-placed shot took down the Guavian who had hit Chewbacca.

“Get up! Chewie, get up!” Striving to divide his attention between the wounded Wookiee and the gang members who were trying to break out of the far corridor, Han got one arm underneath Chewbacca and strained with all his might. It was like trying to lift a mountain. A big, heavy, hairy, smelly, and badly bleeding mountain. One that he would no more leave behind than he would his ship or himself.

Had the gangs been intact, he and Chewbacca never would have made it back to the _Falcon_. There would have been too many guns, too many blasts to avoid. But the intruders had been drastically reduced both in number and capability. The shot that had struck the Wookiee had really been as wild as the others.

Together, Han still supporting the stumbling Chewie, the two of them started up the ramp. At that moment, the last thing either of them expected to hear was a recognizable, friendly voice.

“ _Han!_ ”

Dodging the greatly reduced fire from the surviving gang members and keeping to cover as much as possible, Rey and Finn made it across the open deck to reach the _Falcon_. As they raced up the ramp, a grimacing Han gave orders.

“You shut the hatch behind us!” he instructed Rey, who nodded a swift response. To Finn he snapped, “You take care of Chewbacca!” Half slipping free of his burden, half throwing the wounded copilot in Finn’s direction, Han charged up the ramp.

Nearly collapsing beneath the Wookiee’s weight, Finn manfully did his best to help the moaning Chewbacca stay upright as the two of them staggered the rest of the way up the ramp.

“How do I do that?” the trooper called after the pilot. To no avail. Han didn’t answer.

Chewbacca, on the other hand, groaned, bellowed, and chuffed suggestions. Understanding none of them, a willing Finn nonetheless nodded amenably in response to each one.

“That’s right… for sure… yeah, I’ll do that… no problem.” Wincing as the Wookiee stumbled, Finn had to employ every bit of his strength to keep both of them upright.

 _If he falls on me_ , he decided worriedly, _it’s all over_.

Somehow they made it to the medbay. Helping Chewbacca into the padded alcove that served as a bed, Finn eased the Wookiee in and started digging through the boxes of medical equipment that formed a line on the floor. This was something he could do, he knew, feeling considerably less helpless than he had when trying to assist Rey earlier. Every stormtrooper received training in how to deal with battlefield wounds. Hopefully, the Wookiee’s shoulder injury wouldn’t present any distinctive surprises.

In the cockpit, Han was hitting one control after another, bringing the _Falcon_ back on line. With each green telltale that lit up, a little of his own life did, too. He was startled when Rey arrived and, without waiting for an invitation, settled down in Chewbacca’s seat.

“Hey, what are you doing?” He gestured back in the direction of the lounge. “Passengers back there.”

Sliding her fingers over console controls, she spoke while barely glancing in his direction. “Unkar the guy who last had your ship—installed a fuel pump, too. If we don’t prime it, we’re not going anywhere.” She looked across at him sympathetically.

“I hate that guy,” Han muttered. “I don’t even know him and I hate him.”

“No need.” Rey continued to bring instrumentation to life on her side of the cockpit. “I’ll hate him on your behalf. Meanwhile, you could use a copilot.”

Han frowned at her. “I got one. He’s back there.” Raising his voice, he yelled toward the lounge. “ _Right? I’ve got a copilot?_ ” A bellow of pain greeted his query.

“ _C’mon, Chewie: It’s just a flesh wound!_ ” Han heard Finn say. This observation prompted further bellowing, considerably more stressed, and carrying with it overtones of something approaching annoyance.

“ _Fine!_ ” Han shouted back. “ _Be that way!_ ” Han’s hands flew over the controls. “Fuel pump’s primed. Watch thrust from your end: We’re gonna jump to lightspeed.”

She knew a lot about ships, all kinds of ships. But in all her studies she had never come across the maneuver he had just proposed.

“From _inside_ the hangar? Is that even possible?”

He was wholly at one with the _Falcon_ now, focused intently on the instrumentation. “I never answer that question until after I’ve done it.”

Further discussion regarding the viability of making the jump from stationary position to post-lightspeed was interrupted by something enormous, ravenous, and bilious landing on top of the ship. Heavy thumping penetrated the cockpit, indicating that something was moving in its direction. This was confirmed a moment later by Rey’s scream in response to the appearance of a giant radial mouth that all but covered the forward port. The tooth-filled mouth belonged to a rathtar, which, perceiving the presence of living non-rathtars inside the craft, was chewing its damnedest to get at them. Designed to protect against high-velocity meteoric impacts, the port suffered no immediate damage. Rathtars were notably persistent, however, and frustration only led them to redouble their efforts. Like the rest of them, their mouthparts were exceptionally robust. Design or not, Han had no intention of waiting around long enough to see whether the material of which the port was composed was tougher than rathtar dentition.

“This is _not_ how I thought this day would go,” he muttered. “Shields up, and angle ’em.”

Rey worked the controls. “Got it.” She glanced over at him. “Pretty muscular shields for a Corellian freighter.”

“The Corellians build ’em the way I like ’em.” Under his skillful hands, more instrumentation and equipment came on line. “Of course, I have had a little tweaking done here and there. You may not believe it, but there are some people out there who don’t like me.”

“Hard to imagine,” she murmured.

Seeing that the _Falcon_ was powering up, a quartet of gang members took a chance in emerging from cover to fire at the ship. Though their shots were handled by the _Falcon’s_ shields, the detonations resonated within.

As far as Han could tell, everything was in readiness. There was nothing more to do but try it. He yelled in the direction of the medbay. “Hang on back there! We’re leaving—in a hurry!”

Having dealt with the basics of Chewbacca’s injury, Finn was rummaging through the depths of the medkit he’d found in search of something stronger than a primary painkiller.

“No problem!” he called back, fully aware that, based on the preceding events of the day, there was likely to be one. So while expecting nothing less, he kept searching for something to mitigate Chewbacca’s distress even as the ship’s shields absorbed additional blasts from the Guavians’ weapons.

“Come on, baby,” Han was murmuring, “don’t let me down.” He pulled on the main hyperdrive control.

Nothing.

“ _What?_ ”

Reaching across to his side of the console, Rey calmly activated a control he had not touched and spoke matter-of- factly. “Compressor.”

He glared at her, but only for a moment. As he pulled slowly back on the drive control for the second time, he half smiled at her.

An enormous, overpowering _thunder_ filled the cargo hangar as the _Falcon’s_ engines came to life. In deciding to rush the ship, the surviving gang members had chosen an unfortunate angle that put them directly behind the engines. When these came on, the Guavians disappeared. So did the corridor behind them, and the walls surrounding it, and a good deal more. In all, a respectable quantity of metal, plasticene, and ceramic alloy, comprising a modest chunk of the big freighter, vanished in the energetic backwash of the _Falcon’s_ swift departure. As for the rathtar, it fell apart as the _Falcon_ jumped through it, leaving tell-tale smears behind.

In another part of the vessel, safely sealed off behind the blast doors that slammed shut immediately following the breach of hull integrity caused by the _Falcon’s_ unorthodox departure, a battered and infuriated Bala-Tik took time out from bemoaning the loss of his men and equipment to activate a deep- space contact via the freighter’s still- functional communications system. Caught in the _Falcon’s_ explosive departure, his own vessel was in no condition to pursue. Neither was that belonging to the Kanjiklub. But… others might be. If he couldn’t collect what

Solo owed him, there remained the possibility of a reward for information.

Contact established, he spoke into the pickup. “My name is Bala-Tik. I am a Guavian trader. My personal history is available for general assessment by any who care to research it. My reputation is verifiable. I am letting it be known that the individual Han Solo is likely in possession of the droid that is the subject of a search by the First Order. And that it and Solo together with an unknown number of allies are presently aboard the vessel known as the _Millennium Falcon_ : destination unknown. I hereby lay claim to any reward that has been established for information leading to recovery of said droid by the First Order.”

He closed the contact. It was out there now: what he knew, and his claim. He could do no more. And until he could either get his own vessel up and running or pay for someone to come out to this hulk of a freighter and pick him up, he was stuck here.

With, he reminded himself uneasily as the sound of a distant banging and tearing of metal reached him, an unknown number of surviving rathtars.


	10. Chapter 10

THE INFORMATION ARRIVED at the Resistance base on D’Qar coded and encrypted. Ordinary transmissions were simply ported directly to the relevant parties. Those intended for general distribution were not even encoded. But when something of specific importance intended for a highly restricted audience came in, it loaded at only one location. Sometimes something as simple as mere physical separation provided the best security.

Lieutenant Brance saw the telltale come to life on his workstation. It took scarcely a second for it to flip from red to yellow and then to green as the transmission was received, decrypted, and reduced to a comprehensible hard copy. Pulling it, he scanned the message. His eyes widened.

Leaving the station, he took off on foot, down one tunnel, into another corridor, ignoring everyone else as he searched for the message’s recipient. This time of day he was confident he knew where to find her. The passages through which he ran were crammed with all manner of equipment: Sometimes carefully installed, other times slapped together in haste, it was nonetheless all functional. Despite the crowding, Brance knew there was not nearly enough of it. There was never enough. The indigenous growths that pushed their way into the tunnels were only a reflection of the camouflaging forest above the base. Mindless and unthinking though it might be, the native plant life was in its own way an active participant in the Resistance.

He found the general where he expected her to be, conversing quietly with Captain Snap Wexley and an attendant droid. Leia Organa wore a dark vest over a simple blue-gray jumpsuit that was devoid of any indication of rank. Folded sleeves halted at mid-forearm. The color of her boots matched her vest, and a belt of some dark material was threaded neatly through a silvery buckle. Save for a single longer braid, General Organa’s gray hair was bound up in a ring that outlined her head. Despite her lack of uniform, no one would mistake the petite woman for anything but what she was: a princess and a general.

All three looked up at his arrival and he passed her the hard copy. He knew that if the general wished to keep the information restricted, she would have said so the instant he had handed it over and would have already dismissed Wexley.

After giving her a moment to scan the content, Brance said, “General, as you can see from the details in this recent transmission, the community on Jakku was wiped out. First Order stormtroopers.” Brance glanced at Wexley. “Lor San Tekka was killed.”

She did not respond, but instead continued to study the readout. There was additional information: time of the attack, duration, number of assailants, descriptions of the weaponry they had employed—all of it incidental to the sobering consequences. The tactics team would break down the details and note anything useful.

What really mattered was what _wasn’t_ there.

“If they get to Luke first, we don’t have a chance,” she murmured. A new thought forced her to ask, “Anything else? Anything I’m not seeing here? What about Poe Dameron?”

“They found his X-wing destroyed. Angle and depth of the blaster marks suggest it was blown up while still on the ground. Definitely First Order: The locals don’t have access to that kind of weaponry.” His expression tightened. “There’s no indication he survived. It looks like we’ve lost him.”

Leia’s expression tightened. If they continued to lose fighters like Dameron, the Resistance would have no hope against the First Order. She forced herself to continue reading through the other half of the detailed report. “There’s no mention of Beebee-Ate.”

Brance nodded at the readout again. “No, General. He wasn’t recovered. Our people on Jakku who prepared the report say that he likely perished along with the X-wing.”

She looked up. “Never underestimate a droid, Lieutenant.” She looked to her right. “While some of them are specialized to an extreme degree—say, in linguistic capabilities—others may converse in simple mechanical languages but possess hidden skills. Beebee-Ate is such an example. In the absence of identifiable remains, we may retain hope.” She fixed him with a gaze that had withered the less resilient. “Or are you ready to give up now?”

“No, ma’am,” he said zealously.

General Organa turned to the droid in attendance. In sharp contrast to one arm that was a dull red, the bipedal machine’s reflective golden torso gleamed from a recent cleaning.

“See-Threepio, you’ve heard the information from Jakku. Locate Beebee- Ate immediately— you know what to do.”

Nodding slightly and gesturing with the red arm, the protocol droid responded without hesitation. “Yes, General! Of course! The tracking system. Oh dear, this is a calamity!”

* * *

In another room, Korr Sella, Leia’s personal envoy, awaited the general’s arrival. The young woman wore her hair back in a severe bun and her dark green uniform contrasted notably with the general’s more subdued attire, as did the badge that identified her as a commander. As usual, Leia did not waste time on small talk.

“You need to go to the Senate right away. Tell them I insist that they take action against the First Order. The longer they bicker and delay, the stronger the Order becomes.” She leaned toward the other woman. “If they fail to take action soon, the Order will have grown so strong the Senate will be unable to do anything. It won’t matter what they think.”

Sella indicated her understanding. “With all respect: Do you think the senators will listen?”

“I don’t know.” Leia bit down on her lower lip. “So much time has passed. There was a time when they were at least _willing_ to listen. And of course, the Senate’s makeup has changed. Some of those who were always willing to pay attention to me have retired. Some of those who have replaced them have their own agendas.” She smiled ruefully. “Not all senators think I’m crazy. Or maybe they do. I don’t care what they think about me as long as they take action.”

The emissary nodded. “I’ll do all I can to ensure the Resistance gets the hearing we deserve. But why don’t you go yourself, General? An appeal of this nature is always more effective when delivered firsthand.”

Leia’s smile thinned. “I might make it to the Senate, yes. I might even be able to deliver my speech. But I would never, never get out of the Hosnian system alive. I would have a terrible ‘accident,’ or become the victim of some ‘deranged’ radical. Or I would eat something that didn’t agree with me. Or encounter someone who didn’t agree with me.” She composed herself. “I have total confidence in you, Sella. I know you will deliver our message to the full extent of your considerable abilities.”

The emissary smiled back, grateful for the confidence the general was expressing.

* * *

In a little-used conference room, C-3PO leaned into the shadows to murmur anxiously.

“I’ve never needed your help more than now—Artoo.”

The squat droid he was addressing sat quietly in minimum maintenance mode, without so much as a single telltale blinking.

“How can I have committed such a devastating oversight?” the protocol droid continued. “When we sent Beebee-Ate off, it was my responsibility to perform his final checkout. Which I did, in most excellent and approved fashion. Except—except…” If a droid could have fallen to wailing, C-3PO would have done so on the spot. “I forgot to activate his long-range tracking mode! I must have assumed he would always be in the presence of that pilot and that therefore there would be no need. I deserve to have my memory wiped. Oh, Artoo, what am I to do? I wish you’d finally wake up, I need you now.”

Only an occasional beep sounded from the smaller droid, indicative of his present dormancy.

“What _would_ your advice be? No doubt you’d have an opinion about sending a general alert to all our associate droids, in the hope that one of _them_ might encounter Beebee-Ate or his ident signal.” Two hands, one gold and one red, rose slightly in realization. “Why, that’s brilliant! I will do just that. Artoo, you’re a genius!”

Pivoting, he rushed off to implement the concept, leaving behind a very quiet droid.

* * *

The fleet of Star Destroyers stood off the white world. Spectacular and isolated, with a mean surface temperature varying from merely cold to permanently arctic, the planet had been altered: its mountains tunneled into, its glaciers hacked, and its valleys modified until it no longer resembled its original naturally eroded form. Those who had remade it had renamed it.

_Starkiller Base._

Hollowed out of one snow-covered mountain was a central control facility. At its heart was a great assembly chamber that held hundreds of workstations and their attendant seats. At present, it was occupied by only three figures. One was Kylo Ren. The second was General Hux, who wore his particular mask internally.

Seated on the raised platform that was the focus of the chamber was the blue-tinted holo of Supreme Leader Snoke. Tall and gaunt, he was humanoid but not human. The hood of the dark robe he wore was down, leaving visible a pink, pale face so aged it verged on translucence. Poorly reconstructed, the broken nose added to the asymmetry of the damaged visage. So did the position of the left eye, which was situated lower than the right. Beneath wispy gray eyebrows, they were a startling cobalt blue. Long since healed over, old cuts and wounds marred the chin and forehead, the latter scar being particularly noteworthy.

Seated in shadow, the tall, slender form loomed over the other two men. Other than the face, only long, spindly fingers showed from beneath the dark robe. “The droid will soon be in the hands of the Resistance,” Snoke declaimed, his voice deep, soothing, and very much that of someone in complete control, “giving the enemy the means to locate Skywalker and bring to their cause a most powerful ally. If Skywalker returns, the new Jedi will rise.”

Ren sat impassive, neither commenting nor visibly betraying his thoughts.

Hux dipped his head by way of apology and took a step toward the dais. “Supreme Leader, I take full responsibility for th—”

Snoke cut him off. “Your apologies are not a strategy, General. We are _here now_. It is what happens next that matters.”

Aware that he had just been spared an unknown but certainly unpleasant fate, the redheaded officer spoke up immediately. “I do have a proposition. The weapon. We have it. It is ready. I believe the time has come to use it.”

“Against?”

“The Republic. Or what its fractious proponents choose to call the Republic. Their center of government, its entire system. In the chaos that will follow, the Resistance will have no choice but to investigate an attack of such devastating scale. They will throw all their resources into trying to discover its source. So they have no choice but to investigate fully, and in so doing…”

“Reveal themselves.” Snoke was clearly pleased.

“And if they don’t… we’ve destroyed them.”

“Yes,” Snoke said in satisfaction. “Extreme. Audacious. I agree that the time for such measures has come. Go. Oversee the necessary preparations.”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” Bowing stiffly, Hux turned and exited the chamber. He took long strides, walking briskly, clearly pleased with himself.

Snoke and Ren silently watched the general go.

When next Snoke spoke there was an intimacy in his voice, a familiarity that stood in sharp contrast to the commanding tone he had used with Hux.

“I have never had a student with such promise—before you.”

Ren straightened. “It is your teachings that make me strong, Supreme Leader.”

Snoke demurred. “It is far more than that. It is where you are from. What you are made of. The dark side—and the light. The finest sculptor cannot fashion a masterpiece from poor materials. He must have something pure, something strong, something unbreakable, with which to work. I have—you.” He paused, reminiscing.

“Kylo Ren, I watched the Galactic Empire rise, and then fall. The gullible prattle on about the triumph of truth and justice, of individualism and free will. As if such things were solid and real instead of simple subjective judgments. The historians have it all wrong. It was neither poor strategy nor arrogance that brought down the Empire. You know too well what did.”

Ren nodded once. “Sentiment.”

“Yes. Such a simple thing. Such a foolish error of judgment. A momentary lapse in an otherwise exemplary life. Had Lord Vader not succumbed to emotion at the crucial moment—had the father killed the son—the Empire would have prevailed. And there would be no threat of Skywalker’s return today.”

“I am immune to the light,” Ren assured him confidently. “By the grace of your training, I will not be seduced.”

“Your self-belief is commendable, Kylo Ren, but do not let it blind you. No one knows the limits of his own power until it has been tested to the utmost, as yours has not been. That day may yet come. There has been an awakening in the Force. Have you felt it?”

Ren nodded. “Yes.”

“The elements align, Kylo Ren. You alone are caught in the winds of the storm. Your bond is not just to Vader, but to Skywalker himself. Leia…”

“There is no need for concern.” Despite the Supreme Leader’s cautioning, Ren’s assurance remained unbounded. “Together we will destroy the Resistance—and the last Jedi.”

“Perhaps,” Snoke conceded. “It has come to our notice that the droid we seek is aboard the _Millennium Falcon_ , once again in the hands of your father, Han Solo. Even you, master of the Knights of Ren, have never faced such a test.”

Ren considered his reply carefully. “It does not matter. He means nothing to me. My allegiance is with you. No one will stand in our way.”

Snoke nodded. “We shall see. We shall see.”

It was a dismissal. Turning, wholly preoccupied now, Ren followed General Hux in exiting the vast chamber. When he was gone, a grotesque smile twisted across Snoke’s countenance. Then it vanished—along with the rest of the holo of the Supreme Leader.

* * *

_I don’t know what to do._

Stumbling down the sand flat that wound between towering dunes, the dazed pilot fought to recall who he was, struggled to remember why he presently found himself staggering through what appeared to be an empty desert. His head hurt, and not just from the effort of trying to remember. Reaching up with one hand, he winced as his fingers took the measure of a lump on his forehead that had swollen to the size of a ponnelx egg.

He’d hit his head. Hard. It seemed to him that probably meant something. But what? A concurrence… no, that wasn’t it. Concussion? Yes! He’d suffered a concussion. How had that happened?

As is often the case with a jolt to the brain case, recent events came flooding back to him in a rush.

Capture. Interrogation. He’d stolen a ship with… with… a dark-skinned face and young glimmering eyes suddenly appeared in his mind.

He looked around and began calling the name he remembered.

“Finn! _Finn!_ ”

Then he recalled that the renegade stormtrooper who had helped him escape had ejected from their stolen TIE fighter as it had plunged out of control toward the surface of… Jakku. That was it. He was on Jakku. As for the absent Finn, there was no response to the pilot’s anxious shouts. Depending on the angle and speed of ejection, his new friend could have come down anywhere, Poe knew.

 _His_ name. That was his name. Poe Dameron, and he was a pilot in the Resistance. But if he was a Resistance pilot, where was his flight jacket?

Probably still pinned in the TIE fighter he had only just managed to set down in one piece. He remembered the crash now. Remembered recovering consciousness just in time to set down more or less intact, trying to get out of the cockpit before something blew, his jacket caught and holding him back, struggling out of it and then tumbling clear onto the sand—all of it recalled through the haze of his concussion.

He was alive on the surface of Jakku. Alive and alone. There was no way of telling if Finn had been as fortunate. More important, where was BB-8?

The droid could take care of himself, he felt. Poe knew if he could just get offworld and reconnect with the Resistance, a way could be found to recover the droid. All he needed was a ship. He’d already stolen one. Could he steal another?

First, he reminded himself, he would have to locate one. And before that, he would have to find water.

Morning brought neither, only a relentless sun in a cloudless sky. He continued onward because, given his present situation, one direction was as good as another. The salt flat ran between high dunes. It was not a road, exactly, but it was a way, and the hard surface offered much easier footing than the soft, shifting sand that rose above him on either side.

 _Keep low_ , he told himself, and you might come across a depression. Where there was a depression there might be dampness, and where there was dampness he could try to dig for water.

He found neither depression nor dampness. Instead, someone found him.

The whine of the approaching speeder was unmistakable. Squinting against the harsh light, he turned. A dark spot appeared between the dunes, expanding rapidly as it came toward him. Flat in front and bulging at the stern, the speeder was an unlovely construct, but to Poe at that moment it had lines as sweet as those of the fastest fighter in the Resistance fleet. Standing in the middle of the salt flat, he began jumping up and down and waving his arms.

At first he thought the speeder was going to keep coming and run right over him. Then it began to slow rapidly, angling to the right. Instead of shooting past, it came to a halt. Emitting a descending whine, it dropped slowly to the ground. A figure little more than half Poe’s height promptly descended from the open cockpit.

It was a Blarina. Mirrored eyeshades swept across the broad face above the short, wide snout, and a toothy grin appeared as the speeder’s scaly operator closely examined the lone human.

“A bit warm to be out walking by oneself in this country, my friend.”

Poe grunted acknowledgment. “It’s not by choice, I assure you.”

“And where, then, have you come from?” The Blarina’s grin grew wider, showing far more teeth than a human mouth. “Or do you just enjoy Jakku’s gentle sunshine?”

“I’m lost.” That much, at least, was not a lie, Poe knew. “I hit my head and I’m lost.”

The Blarina let out a soft hiss. “Lost, indeed. Where’s your speeder, my friend?”

Poe thought fast. “Same place I am. Lost.”

“I’m Naka Iit. A scavenger of sorts.” Once again he looked Poe carefully up and down. “I might just scavenge you.”

Poe tensed. He had no weapon, and in the event of a confrontation, he was hardly in any condition to offer much in the way of physical resistance, even to a Blarina who was half his size. The species to which the speeder operator belonged was not especially strong, but they were very, very quick. This one, he reflected, was also fast with words.

Well, with words he could still defend himself.

“It’s said that the Blarina are an exceptionally hospitable people.”

Naka Iit’s grin gave way to a frown of astonishment. “You’ve heard that? That must be referring to some other Blarina. It certainly doesn’t sound like me.”

Poe spread his hands wide. “You’d be wasting your time on me. I have nothing worth scavenging.”

Raising his eyeshades, Naka stared hard at the pilot out of gold-hued eyes crossed with slitted pupils. “Then what, exactly, are you doing out in this wasteland, with ‘nothing’?”

Poe felt himself swaying. He was hot, he was thirsty, he was exhausted, his head hurt, and except for this irritating Blarina he was alone in the middle of nowhere on a nowhere world. He was also possibly a little bit crazy from the heat. Otherwise he likely would not have said what he next said.

“I just escaped from the First Order by stealing one of their advanced TIE fighters, used it to shoot up one of their Star Destroyers, and crash-landed somewhere near here.”

Naka stared at the human for a long moment. Then his wide eyes squinted, his scaly cheeks caught the sun as they bunched up, and he burst out laughing. One five-fingered hand wiped at the tears that trickled from the corners of his eyes.

“I’ll wet my zinz if you aren’t the most barefaced liar I’ve encountered in twenty years of scavenging on this sandbox!” He extended one lightly clothed arm. “Come with me, my friend. The Blarina _do_ say that much good accrues to anyone who helps the mad. Liar or madman, whichever you may be, it amuses me to lend you assistance.” Lowering his eyeshades, he turned his gaze skyward. “The spirits have placed you here to alleviate my boredom. Come.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” a sun- addled Poe mumbled as he fumbled his way aboard Naka’s battered speeder, “I’d be more than happy if you could just give me a drink of water.”

Scrunched into a passenger seat designed to accommodate another Blarina, his knees pushed up against his chest, Poe gratefully accepted Naka’s offer of a slender metal drinking flask complete with sipping tube.

“I need to get offworld.” He spoke between delicious swallows. “As quickly as possible.”

“Of course you do,” Naka replied soothingly. “Jakku is no place for a madman.” He looked to his left. “We’re not far from Niima Outpost, but I’m not going to take you there. Local commerce is more or less run by a corpulent sack of slurge who goes by the name of Plutt. I’ve had words with him in the past and don’t wish to confront him again.”

Feeling better now that he’d had something to drink, Poe felt that the least he could do was acknowledge his rescuer’s predilections. “You’re very fond of words.”

“As are all Blarina.” Naka seemed to grow slightly in his seat. “I once finished fifth in a homeworld soliloquy competition. It is one of our most notable traits.”

“Any others?” Poe inquired.

Naka’s grin returned, his sharp teeth glistening in the bright sunlight. “We’re also famously accomplished liars.” He glanced once more at his passenger. “I’ll take you as far as Blowback Town. There’s a Blarina merchant there named Ohn Gos who is afflicted with the sorry habit of listening sympathetically. I’ll introduce you. After that, you’re on your own.”

The light touch of a claw on a control caused the speeder to accelerate slightly. After that, Naka Iit went quiet. Poe was left to his thoughts—until a gout of sand exploded from the dune off to their left. Leaning out, Naka looked behind them, uttered a loud hiss, and tromped the speeder’s accelerator.

Thrown back in his seat, Poe struggled to regain his balance. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Without turning, a now grim Naka gestured slightly with his head. “Look for yourself.”

Leaning to his right and out, Poe peered behind them. Another, much larger speeder was there and gaining. A second shot from it blew a crater in the dune face on his side.

“Strus clan.” Naka’s tone was bleak. “A motley collection of grunks who can’t do salvage, repair, trade, or anything else.” The speeder rocked from another near-miss. “So they steal from those who can.”

“They’re not very good shots,” Poe pointed out.

This time Naka did look over at him. “Idiot madman. If they blow us up, they acquire nothing but garbage. They shoot to disable, not to destroy.”

“They’re catching up,” Poe told him. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

“I am a salvager, not a podracer! My craft is built for hauling, not speed!”

Poe considered a moment. “Then let me drive.” He leaned over.

“What! Are you insane?” Naka batted at the reaching hands. “No, wait—you are. Why should I let you take control of my only real asset?”

“Because,” Poe told him as yet another burst slammed into the salt flat almost directly beneath them, “I am the best pilot you ever met.”

They wrestled like that for a while before Naka finally gave in. After all, with a Strus clan speeder closing on them, they had little chance of escape anyway. As soon as man and Blarina had switched positions, Poe turned the clumsy but sturdy craft sharply to the left—and began to slow.

“Giving up already?” Naka’s words oozed sarcasm. “I could have done that much myself.”

“Indicate that we’re going to surrender.” Poe was studying the speeder’s controls. They looked very straightforward.

“Why not? Isn’t that what we are doing?” The salvager sighed. “I’ll have to ask Ohn for a loan. I hate starting over.” Rising, he began making gestures at the pursuing craft. No more shots were forthcoming.

Watching the bigger speeder come up on them via the rearview, Poe continued to decelerate until their pursuer was near enough for him to make out the faces and assorted appendages of the now- triumphant thieves. When their larger vehicle was as close as he was willing to let it come, he tilted the nose of Naka’s speeder sharply upward and gave it full power. It promptly shot skyward.

The sudden explosive burst kicked what seemed like half the dune beneath them upward and back, dumping the gritty shower atop the big speeder that had slowed almost to a stop behind them. Those Strus not wearing protective goggles received eyefuls of hot sand. The bulk of the grit storm instantly sank into every opening. While the Strus speeder’s main propulsion system was sealed against such intrusions, not every instrument, not every component, was.

As Naka’s craft soared over the crest of the dune, a sharp grinding noise behind them indicated that the Strus craft had ingested just enough sand to render it at least temporarily inoperable. The sound, like the threatening speeder itself, faded rapidly astern.

Beside him, a gleeful Naka was emitting a kind of cackling hiss. Alien though the exclamation was to Poe, the scavenger’s delight could not be denied.

“Oh joy, oh pleasurable delight!” A hand reached over to clap Poe on the shoulder. “Saved by a madman!” The Blarina pointed. “Our destination lies that way. I find myself suddenly amenable to letting you drive. Are you really with the Resistance?”

“Yes.” Compared to a stolen TIE fighter, the speeder was easy to operate.

“Then you truly are crazy.”

Poe glanced over at him. “We of the Resistance prefer the term ‘courageous.’ ”

“I see little difference.” Leaning back in the passenger seat, Naka Iit picked at an incisor with one claw-tipped finger. “I owe you, my madman friend. Beyond just picking you out of the desert, I owe you most thankfully. I will intercede with Ohn Gos. One way or another, we will get you off Jakku!”

“I’m grateful,” a relieved Poe told him simply.

“Grateful! What matters the gratitude of a madman?” Naka replied.

But he smiled as he hissed it.

* * *

Despite their escape, all was not tranquil aboard the _Millennium Falcon_. After having acquired it, Unkar Plutt had paid for only minimum maintenance, with the intention of preparing it fully for flight only if and when he found a buyer, so components that had worked immediately following lift-off from the surface of Jakku were now starting to show the lack of attention, and others were turning balky.

The alarms, however, were functioning quite efficiently.

Finn did his best to ignore them as he continued to work on Chewbacca’s injury. This was made difficult by the Wookiee’s habit of grabbing Finn by the neck or shoulder and shaking him violently every time a fresh spasm of pain shot through the hirsute shoulder. Each time, Finn managed to settle the patient down and continue his ministrations. But his neck was getting sore.

Up in the cockpit, it seemed like every time Han and Rey managed to squelch one problem, a new one materialized to take its place. The present difficulty was a matter of degree. Or rather, degrees.

Rey indicated a readout whose numbers were too high for comfort and rising steadily. “Drive containment torus is overheating.”

“Yeah,” Han grunted. “You know why?”

A second’s glance at the copilot’s console was sufficient to supply the answer. “Field instability.”

“Yep.”

He wasn’t going to elaborate for her, Rey realized. If this was some kind of test of her competence…No, she decided. What was occurring within the hyperdrive system was too dangerous for a test. She frowned at the controls.

“Need to recalculate and readjust the relevant parameters.”

“Recalculate?” He eyed his own instrumentation. “Yeah. Hold on— readjusting…” A number of telltales suddenly went to red. “Power overload!”

“I can fix that!” Rey’s fingers flew over her controls.

“Field instability is approaching critical! If it overshoots, we won’t be able to stabilize it!”

She worked frantically. “Maybe there’s an auto-flux modulation system? That hasn’t been activated yet? If it hasn’t come online with everything else, try transferring auxiliary power to it.”

“Auxiliary,” Han yelled at her. “I’m on it!”

A moment later a deafening roar came from the vicinity of the lounge. Rising from the pilot’s seat, Han headed in its direction. “Be right back. You’ve got the con.”

Utterly unaware of the tremendous compliment she had just been handed, she nodded absently while continuing to manipulate controls.

In the lounge, Finn was finishing the bandaging of Chewbacca’s injured shoulder. For someone so big, he reflected as he ducked and dodged the bellowing Wookiee’s reactions, Chewie was proving to be an uncommonly difficult patient. As a huge, shaggy hand grabbed Finn yet again, BB-8 scurried clear. His voice muffled by an armful of fur, Finn tried to make the Wookiee appreciate the situation.

“Chewie, you’ve got to let go of me, understand? I can’t secure this bandaging properly if I can’t see what I’m doing. Or move. Or breathe.”

The Wookiee nodded apprehensively.

“Okay then, help me out here. Let go.” Chewbacca promptly shook his head _no_. Exasperated—and by now more than just sore—Finn yelled toward the cockpit.

“I need help with this giant fuzz ball!” As Chewbacca roared anew in pain, a grim-faced Han left what he had been doing and joined them. “You hurt Chewie,” he growled, “you deal with me!”

“Hurt _him_?” Finn continued to struggle with Wookiee torso, shaggy arms, and bandaging. “He’s almost killed _me_ six times!” Reaching out, a massive hand grabbed him by the collar. Finn responded with a hasty smile. “Which is fine. Really.”

Han hesitated a moment, eyed his wounded copilot, and then headed back to the cockpit. Dropping back into his seat, he muttered unhappily as he scanned one readout after another.

“The hyperdrive blows, and there’ll be pieces of us in three different systems.”

Abruptly, all the alarms stopped. A satisfied Rey sat back in her seat. Confused, Han peered over at her.

“What’d you do?”

“Bypassed the auto-flux and recalibrated manually.” She nodded toward the console. “Field has stabilized. Toral containment temperature is dropping back toward normal.” She let out a long breath and glanced across at him. “Anything else?”

He let out a short, appreciative laugh. “Yeah.” He rose once more from his seat and retraced his steps toward the access corridor. “Keep monitoring ship systems and give me a shout if it looks like anything’s likely to blow up in the next couple of minutes.”

Back in the medbay, he knelt alongside the supine Chewbacca. The Wookiee was still moaning, but not as forcefully now that the analgesic Finn had administered was starting to work. Carefully, Han checked the bandaged wound while reassuring his copilot.

“Nah,” he murmured, “don’t say that. You did great. They got you with a lucky shot.” He smiled. “Can’t look everywhere at once in a running fight. Kanjiklubbers, Guavians, rathtars— _rathtars_! Trying to hold ’em all off while covering for me and making it to the ship—I’m surprised any of us made it.” He rose. “You’re gonna be fine.”

He turned to Finn, who, with BB-8 standing beside and watching, was trying to activate the holochess set. Looking on, Han hesitated. This was difficult for him, but it needed to be said. And he meant it.

“Good job on Chewie. I— Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Glancing toward the bed alcove, Finn addressed the patient. “Thanks for not breaking my neck.” The Wookiee replied with a guttural, modulated rumble. Finn chose to interpret it as an apology of sorts.

Sliding a finger across a flush control brought the chess set to life. The pieces steadied themselves before gazing up at Finn. Then, in lieu of any forthcoming instructions, they started fighting among themselves. Annoyed by his lack of control, Finn tried to turn it off, but that apparently required finding and nudging a different control. Han suppressed a smile.

 _Peculiar guy, this one_ , Han thought. _He can deal with a battlefield wound but not an ordinary chess set._ He shrugged. The man’s capabilities and lack thereof were none of his business. Instead, he asked: “So. Fugitives, huh?”

Finn nodded and indicated BB-8. “It’s the map he’s storing. The First Order wants it, and they’ll kill anyone who tries to keep it from them.”

Rey arrived to join them as Finn finally managed to deactivate the chess set. “Ship systems are stable. I made sure before I left everything on autopilot.” She indicated Finn and the droid. “They’re with the Resistance. And I was with them. So I guess now in the mind of the Order, I’m with the Resistance.”

 _Resistance fighters?_ Han eyed Finn with new respect—and not a little skepticism. The younger man had handled himself well enough in the brawl on board the freighter, but that only proved he was a survivor: not a fighter. Further evaluation could wait until later, Han told himself. Right now…

He looked to BB-8. “Let’s see whatcha got.”

Dutifully, the droid rolled into a suitable position. A lens brightened, and abruptly the lounge was all but filled with an enormously detailed and complex star map. Nebulae, solo stars, translucent splashes of concentrated dark matter, and entire solar systems were displayed before them. Even Chewbacca sat up to have a better look. Finn was impressed and Rey in awe—but Han found himself frowning.

Moving forward and into the three- dimensional representation, he tracked system positions and locator stars. One finger traced the outlines of a particularly bright and well-known nebular cluster. Like everything else in the map, it was brilliantly depicted.

It was also only half there.

He turned to the others. “This is accurate, but it’s not complete. It’s just a piece. I can tell from the location of the breaks and from what’s only partially shown.” He grunted softly. “Ever since Luke disappeared, people have been looking for him.”

Rey spoke while drinking in the details of the marvelous but imperfect chart. “Why’d he leave, anyway?”

Han pursed his lips; thinking back, remembering.

“He was training a new generation of Jedi. There was no one else left to do it, so he took the burden on himself. Everything was going good, until one boy, an apprentice, turned against him and destroyed it all. Everything Luke had worked toward: gone. Luke felt responsible. He walked away from everything.”

Finn’s tone was respectful. “Do you know what happened to him? Does anyone?”

Han turned to him. “There’ve been all kinds of rumors and stories. When people don’t have access to facts, they invent what they’d like to believe, or what they think others would like to hear. The people who knew him the best think he went on a personal quest, looking for the first Jedi temple.”

Rey had been quiet for a while, absorbing everything in awed silence. She could no longer contain herself.

“The Jedi were real?”

Han half smiled, to himself as much as to her. “I used to wonder that myself. A bunch of mumbo-jumbo is what it sounds like. Some magical power holding together good and evil, light and dark.” He paused, his voice fading. “Crazy thing is, it’s all real. The Jedi, the Force—it’s true. All true.” He brought himself back to reality.

“Just as it’s true what Finn here said: The First Order will kill all of us for that map.”

An alarm sounded, but this one was different from the flurry that had preceded it. Chewbacca started to rise, but Han put out a hand to prevent him.

“No. You relax.” He glanced at Finn. “Don’t risk the good work of our friend here by stressing what he’s done.” He headed for the cockpit. “This is our stop.”


End file.
